


The Arsonist

by paintitb1ack



Series: Lionheart [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Asexual Sam Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Demons, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, The Empty (Supernatural), Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-31 06:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintitb1ack/pseuds/paintitb1ack
Summary: Sam and Lucifer are dead, and Dean bringing the former back could mean bringing the latter back as well.Unfortunately for the rest of the world, Dean decides that he doesn't care. But when Sam is resurrected, it's clear that something is wrong with him. Something happened while he was dead, something that changed him into someone who is nearly as difficult to deal with as Lucifer.Now with two big problems on their hands, Dean, Cas, and a few of their friends (and enemies) must try to find a way to set it all right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “he will burn in hell,” my friend promises. i don’t care if he does. i want him to burn now, to burn the way i did, to burn the way i do, like your body is a river of acid. like you can’t stand to see yourself in the morning. like the mirror is poison and your mouth is wide open. i am trapped somewhere under the earth, slowly being calloused by venom.” - r.i.d.

**_Hello?_ **

**_Can anyone hear me?_ **

**_No?_ **

**_Alright, Dad, where did you dump me this time? And all by myself? No one to fool around with ‘til someone springs me?_ **

**_You could have at least given me someone to talk to. Even if it’s just_ **

**_Oh._ **

**_There you are._ **

**_No, no, I can’t see you. And I… I don’t think I can touch you either._ **

**_Seems likes like you lucked out, kiddo._ **

**_Any idea what this place is?_ **

**_Yeah, me neither. I don’t know about you, but it’s a bit too dark for my taste. I prefer a little theme lighting. Always enjoyed the power that fire gives off. But you know that already._ **

**_No thoughts?_ **

**_That’s fine. But you’re gonna have to talk to me at some point. Who knows how long our fine keesters will be stuck here._ **

**_Really? Nothing?_ **

**_Alright, alright, I get it. Didn’t treat you so good last time we were locked up together. Would it help if I said I was sorry?_ **

**_Still got a bit of rebel in you, huh? I bet you’re thinking that you can ignore me because I can’t get to you here._ **

**_But we’ve got time, sweetheart. All the time in the world._ **

**_And are you_ ** **really** **_willing to bet that I’ll_ ** **never** **_be able to reach you?_ **

**_I’ve done it before._ **

**_I can do it again._ **

**_So how 'bout giving me a little "how do you do" and I promise I'll keep my hands to myself for, oh, let's say the next fifteen minutes._**  

**_Still not biting?_ **

**_Alright, smart-ass._ **

**_I’ll do it myself._ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him? Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.” - Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The John Winchester I’m writing is a homophobic piece of shit. I know I put it in the tags, but I figured I'd give you an extra warning, just in case.

It’s another half hour before Dean finally stops the car. He’s passed four different spots that would have been perfectly suitable for a funeral pyre, but it’s not until the fifth that Cas lays a firm hand on his arm, silently telling him that they can’t keep wasting time.

“There’s not enough space.” Dean’s foot is light on the brake, allowing them to roll a halting few more inches down the dirt road.

The angel gives him a look before taking it upon himself to slide the gear into park.

The car jerks to a full stop, and Dean feels a numbness settle heavily on his body. They’re here. They’re here, and he’s going to have to get out and cut down branches and trees and pile them up and place Sam on top and pour gasoline and light a match and

Dean’s breathing catches as he hears a  _ tap-tap-tap  _ on his window. Rolling the glass down, he sees the angel standing on the other side.

Cas leans in, hands curled around the base of the open window. “I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is still soft, but it’s also begun to take on a bit of an edge. It’s clear that he’s steadily growing more impatient. “Sam’s death was extremely unfortunate…”

_ Unfortunate. _

“...but this is something that must be done.” Cas tries to catch Dean’s gaze, but it’s pointless; his eyes are glazed over, unseeing. It takes him a moment, but the angel finally steps back and says, “Stay in the car if you must. I can do this myself.” 

_ Leave. _

“Dean?”

_ Leave him. _

Moving to the back door, Cas reaches for the handle. But before he can even lay fingers to metal, Dean reaches back and locks him out.

The angel sighs heavily, the slight pull of his lip confirming his irritation. “Dean… please don’t do this.”   


_ Go. _

“Dean.”

_ Go now. _

Cas could easily break the window, and both of them know it. But he won’t, and both of them know that too. With Sam gone, the Impala is one of the only good things left in Dean’s life and, no matter how important it is to do complete this task, Cas will not take the beauty of this car from him. One hand on the roof, the angel walks back to the front and levels his gaze with Dean’s. “Please.”

Without really thinking about it, the hunter dips his hand into his right pocket, feeling for the lighter. Instead, his fingers brush against something else.

Slowly, he pulls the folded paper from his pocket, nails digging into lined sheet as he sees the single initial penned on the outside:  _ D. _

With barely a moment’s hesitation, Dean opens the note. He tries to force himself to take his time, to cherish this, but his pounding heart won’t let him. He can feel Cas leaning over his shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reads:

_ I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but this is the end of the line for me. It doesn’t matter how you look at it. We know how strong he is. He’ll want to possess me or, at the very least, torture me. But I won’t let him. Not again.  _

_If you’ve found this note, it means that I was right. I didn’t survive this one. I don’t know how it happened, but I hope I at least got a few hits in. I know_ you _probably_ _did. You’ve always been so strong and you’ve always protected me. So Dean, let_ me _protect_ you _now._

_ Listen to me. I know you’re probably arguing with Cas about bringing me back.  _

_ Don’t. _

_ Build a pyre. Keep the world from having to deal with a second apocalypse.  _

_ I’m fighting Lucifer to save you.  _

_ I need you to fight to save everyone else.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Sam _

Hands tighten around the note, crinkling the paper. Every sentence, every  _ word  _ only solidifies the hollowness he feels in his chest.

Cas pulls away, silently thanking Sam for his intelligence. He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to convince Dean by himself. Thankfully, Sam understood how all of this would go and had the forethought to help out. But there is still some work to be done. “Dean---”

“He knew.” The hunter’s voice is quiet, almost imperceptible. “He knew he was going to die.”

Leaning against the car, Cas answers, “He had little reason to think otherwise.”

“But he did it to protect  _ me.”  _ Dean shifts in his seat, finally allowing for a few seconds’ eye contact. “Not the rest of the world.  _ Me.”  _ Blinking away, he continues, “I never should’ve let him do this.”

“You believe you could have stopped him?”

Of all the questions that the angel has posed over the past twenty-four hours, this one is the most pointless.

Dean doesn’t reply, but his silence is answer enough.

“This was  _ his  _ decision, Dean. He could have run away, but he didn’t. He stayed and fought because he knew it was the right thing to do.” Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, slowly, so he doesn’t startle him. Gently, he asks, “Do you believe that the two of you were put here for a purpose?”

“Sam does.” The hunter ignores the hand on his arm, but he doesn’t move away either. “To save people.”

“Including you.” Cas nods. “You have always felt a sense of duty towards your brother. Do you not believe that he felt the same towards you?”

The tension in Dean’s shoulders loosens a little as he murmurs, “I know he does.”

“You must allow him this. You  _ must  _ allow him to save you.”

Tear prick at the corners of the hunter’s eyes as he leans back into his seat.

“He loved you, Dean.” Cas says softly, hand slipping from his shoulder. “Always remember that.”

Dean looks back down at the note, at the words sweeping beautifully across the page. Sam has always had good handwriting, sloping the letters in a way that Dean considered too “ladylike” for a man. As Sam would later find out, the only reason why his brother would say that was because he didn’t know how to do it himself. 

As a teenager, whenever an essay was due, Dean would quickly type it out on one of the school’s computers. That’s if he even wrote the paper in the first place. Contrary to popular belief, however, the older Winchester was and  _ is  _ very intelligent. Sam would always comment on how, if Dean had applied himself, he would have done quite well in school. Of course, moving to a different state every few weeks didn’t nurture a very good learning environment.

_Sam’s_ essays, on the other hand, always started out handwritten. He found himself able to work better if he wrote the first draft of his papers almost like a stream of consciousness, getting all of his thoughts out at once before picking through them and finding ones he liked. After a thorough editing process, Sam would use a computer. After editing the essay once more, he’d print it out and hand it in. He got A’s or A+’s on nearly every paper he submitted. As opposed to his older, he eventually began to do work on his own, homeschooling himself. After some begging, Dean would help him as well, quizzing him in French or watching him go through a presentation on  John Wojtowicz. If their father ever found out about the latter, he’d probably kick both their asses.

Thinking about it now, Dean realizes that the word “probably” isn’t one that fits. “Definitely” is considerably more accurate. John rarely hit Sam, but the first time he did was while the boys were attending a school in a small town in Florida. Sam and Dean usually walked back to their motel, but John decided one day to surprise them and pick them up. Normally, he would still be in their room, poring over his journal and deciding their next course of action. But rumors spread quickly in small towns, and it didn’t take long for a very interesting one to reach John’s ears. According to the motel clerk, Sam had been seen regularly hanging out with another boy in his grade. That would have been alright if the rumor hadn’t also included the kiss the two thirteen-year-old boys shared behind the school. 

And so, after ordering both Sam and Dean into the backseat of the Impala, he drove them all out of town. They ended up on a dirt road about hundred yards off of the highway before the car finally stopped. Getting out, John opened the back door, grabbed Sam by the arm, and threw him onto the ground. Dean scrambled out of his own side of the car, moving quickly around the trunk to try and help his brother, but John immediately turned on him, slamming him up against the Impala, his left forearm pressing heavily against the seventeen-year-old’s throat. 

“Did you know about this?” He asked, to which Dean didn’t reply. So John hit him, fist colliding with the younger man’s jaw. Blood sputtered from Dean’s mouth, the dark red leaking between his teeth.  _ “Did. You. Fucking. Know.”  _ John said again, and that time his son did answer, his snap of “Yeah, but who gives a shit” prompting the pressure on his throat to increase. “I won’t have my son bein’ a queer,” John replied coldly. “He’s got high school next year. If he keeps going like this, he’ll be takin’ it up the ass by the time he’s sixteen.” “Or the other way around,” Dean said, unable to resist. John punched him again, this time in the stomach. With a bark of pain, his son buckled over, the arm John was using to restrain him pulling back as he fell to the ground. 

It was barely a moment later that Sam ran at his father, all ninety terrified pounds of him driving one boney shoulder into his back. Unsurprisingly, John was completely unaffected; aside from subtle twitch of his fingers, he didn’t even react. Turning around, he took hold of his son’s collar and pulled him close, breath hot on the boy’s face as he asked, “Are you a faggot, Sammy? Is that what you want to be?” Sam’s breathing shuddered, so at a loss that he was unable to form any sort of reply. Tightening his grip, John immediately backhanded him across the face. Sam gasped, head pounding, Dean’s furious shout of  _ “No!”  _ unable to permeate his addled brain. “Answer me,” John ordered, voice low, and his son immediately shook his head. “No,” he said, inhaling sharply as his father released his grip. “No,” John repeated. Then, taking Sam by the jacket, he shoved him back towards the car. “Get in.” The boy obeyed without a single protest. But the moment Dean began to try and open his own door, John stopped him, saying, “Not you.  _ You’re _ walking back.” Dean could see his little brother’s breathing quicken as John turned the car around and drove off. 

It took Dean over three hours to make it back to the motel, and he was just approaching their room when he heard a muffled sob coming from inside the Impala. Looking in through the back window, he realized that Sam was still in there, that John was forcing him to sleep outside as part of his punishment. The door creaked as he opened it, sending a surprised Sam scrambling fearfully back across the seat. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he said, slowly climbing in next to him. “It’s just me, it’s okay.” Sam didn’t even say a word; he simply dove into his brother’s arms. Dean hugged him tightly, loosening his hold slightly on hearing the boy’s soft groan. Fingers clutching Sam’s back came away red, the blood from whatever other punishments John decided to inflict seeping through his coat. Dean didn’t know the extent of what their father did to Sam, and he never asked. The topic came up only once, a few months before Stanford, but Sam quickly changed the subject. Whatever had happened that night was completely up to Dean’s interpretation. And from what he knew about his father’s extreme homophobia, he could only imagine the ways in which John took the boy apart.

Dean knows that his father is gone, that he’s dead and he’s not coming back. But the effect that he had on his sons is still ongoing. It could be said that that’s why Sam has always been in relationships with women. Dean knows the probability of that because he is the same way. Fortunately for him, he was always better than Sam at keeping secrets from their father. If John knew what his eldest had gotten into in early high school, Dean would be dead by now. It was only after Sam got caught that Dean began ignoring that part of himself.

John is gone, and yet neither Sam nor Dean have allowed themselves to breathe.

Folding the note back up, Dean places it gently back into his pocket. He’s furious that Cas is making such a good argument, that he’d be going against Sam’s wishes  _ yet again _ if he tried to find a way to resurrect him. But what he said before still stands: without Sam, there is nothing left to live for. He looks up at his friend. “Cas---”

He barely gets the name out when there’s a sudden blast of light, a loud roar tearing its way across the clearing. Trees are ripped from their roots and tossed aside, a cascade of dirt showering the Impala. Cas’ body slams back against the side of the car, his shout of  _ “Dean!”  _ lost amidst the sound of glass breaking as every single one of the windows shatters. The hunter ducks down, hands over his head in an attempt to avoid any shrapnel. The overwhelming noise continues for maybe another ten seconds before ending just as quickly as it began. 

Light still fills the clearing but, when Dean finally looks up, he thinks he sees the vague silhouette of a man standing not even thirty yards away.

Leaning over the passenger seat, he opens the glove compartment and pulls out The Colt. Blood coats the inside of his ears, but he doesn’t even notice. He simply gets out of the car and cocks the gun, leveling it with the figure in the distance. Reaching blindly for Cas, he catches his friend by the arm and pulls him to his feet. He pays no mind to the angel’s ragged breathing, instead choosing to keep his focus on his target.

Eventually the light begins to fade as well, and it’s just as the last ray vanishes that the hunter sees who it is.

Hands behind his back, Chuck gives Dean a big smile. “You rang?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy oh boy.  
> \-----------  
> I really do despise John Winchester. I know the show has never explicitly stated his views on homosexuality but, considering his overly extreme, abusive “man up” attitude, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which way he probably leans.  
> \--------------  
> What did John do to thirteen-year-old Sam? Just like Dean, that’s completely up to your interpretation.  
> \--------------  
> As I’ve done before, if any chapter deals explicitly with sexual assault, homophobia, etc., I will post a warning in the notes up top. I know there are warnings in the tags about these things, but I figure it best to still give people a heads up.  
> \--------------  
> One last note: asexuality does not equate to an aversion to sex. Asexual people can and do have sex. Yes, some asexuals are not keen on it, but that's also a very big scale. It can mean that someone would just rather not do it or it can mean that the very idea of having sex with someone is unimaginable and abhorrent. Asexual people are not against people having sex. But they are allowed to not be okay with they themselves having sex, just like people of any orientation.  
> The Sam in this series is ace. Where he is on the spectrum is once more up to your interpretation. But, as he explained to Gabriel, his aversion to sex came from his experiences with Lucifer. Not his lack of sexual attraction, but his aversion.  
> Like with anything, asexuality differs from person to person. If you have any questions, you can always ask.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you, rationalization man! You’ve saved the village!” - House

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean speaks without hesitation, his surprise at Chuck’s appearance taking a backseat only seconds after catching a glimpse of that curly brown hair and over-worn green jacket.

Groaning inwardly, Cas curses his Father for showing up. The angel knows for a fact that He can’t bring Sam back; where the boy ended up, He has no power. So who the hell can say why He even decided to come down here in the first place. To apologize? If he weren’t so irritated, Cas would laugh. Chuck has shown more favor towards the Winchesters than any other humans on the planet, but that doesn’t mean he still isn’t a consistently absent father.

“Hey,” Chuck replies, pointing a finger at Dean. “I’m not just at your and Sam’s beck and call. As _God,_ I’ve got an entire _universe_ to run.”

The hunter scoffs. “Yeah, and you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“Dean,” Cas cautions. Then he looks to his Dad and asks, “What are you doing here?”

Chuck pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and waves it at the men. “It used to be that whenever someone prayed, their prayer got sent to my email. But then someone suggested I create an app instead and, since I’m God…” He grins as he unlocks the phone. “Now the prayers are organized by country, gender, age, you name it. If you’re praying that I’ll heal your dying grandfather, it’ll automatically be at the top of the list. I probably won’t do it - what with needing to maintain the natural order and all that - but it’s still something. Fortunately for you guys, I actually get a notification whenever Sam prays. And boy, does he pray a _lot._ How many times have you kids died since I---”

“Father.”

At Cas’ look, Chuck gestures with his free hand and continues, “Right, right, sorry. Well, I also get notifications whenever Sam is _mentioned_ in a prayer too, so…” Winking, he clicks his tongue and makes a finger gun at Dean. When the hunter doesn’t respond, he puts his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway, I just came down here to tell you that I can’t do it.”

“You fucking---” Dean starts, but Chuck just cuts him off.

“This is what’s going to happen: you’re going to insult me; I’m going to ask you to relax; you’re going to get angrier; I’m going to try to explain, but you’re just going to cut me off again; and it’s going to keep going ‘round and ‘round like this until Cas gets you to settle down. So how about we skip all of that and go straight to the “why”. That okay with you?”

The hunter looks a bit miffed, but he nods anyway.

Chuck seems to have gained a great deal of confidence, enough to even have him leaning towards an overactive ego. Whatever the reason, he didn’t used to be this bold. Spending time away from the giant trash heap of a planet he created has obviously been enough to create a feeling of separation. If anything, actually making a trip or two to earth every once in a while might help him, _and_ his attitude. All Dean knows is that, with this ego boost, it’s only going to be that much harder for him to convince God give him what he wants.

“Alright.” Chuck crosses his arms. “When Sam and Lucifer died, they went to the same place. You know how difficult it was to drag Sam out of The Cage the first time? It was almost impossible to get him out of there without Lucifer tagging along. This time it’s worse, and not just because of that. Where they are now, I have no power. So---”

“You could try,” Dean interrupts.

“Yeah, and you could try growing your hair like that guy Eric Brady on _Days of Our Lives.”_ Chuck takes a step towards him, ignoring Cas’ warning glance. “Look, some things just aren’t possible.”

The muscles in Dean’s arms tighten, stilling his entire body. “Bring him back.”

“Bring him ba---” Chuck repeats, irritated confusion colouring his words. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”

 _“Do it!”_ The hunter says, louder this time.

Chuck raises both hands mockingly. “Oh, well, now that you’ve yelled, I’m definitely going to do it."

Hearing Dean’s soft growl, Cas is about to move between them when suddenly there is a blinding flash of lightning, causing all but Chuck to stumble back. Thunder rumbles, shaking the ground beneath their feet as dark clouds gather overhead.

“Oh, shhh...ugar,” Chuck murmurs, gaze locked on the sky.

Dirt takes to the air, swirling around Dean’s legs. “What, you can’t curse now?” He asks, raising his voice as the noise picks up.

“Well, you know,” Chuck adjusts his shoulders, “recently I’ve been trying to keep up the Godly image that people have of me.”

“Dean.” Cas grabs his friend by the arm. “Do you know who---”

“Yeah,” the hunter replies with a deep breath. “But we left off pretty well, so maybe things’ll go better this time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just wait.” Dean watches as a column of black smoke blasts out of the sky and into the ground. The darkness billows out and floods the entire clearing, tearing hunter and angel apart. But while Cas is once more tossed aside, Dean is left standing, the smoke passing over him in a way similar to when this same thing happened a year ago. “Hello?” He calls, hoping he’s loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to provoke a negative reaction.

“Dean Winchester.”

Her voice is just as smooth as he remembers, just as deep. Her dark hair still falls in cascades past her pale shoulders, her sharp cheekbones helping showcase her perpetually irritated, brown eyes. But more encapsulating than all of that is the absolute strength and energy she emanates, even after all of the smoke has disappeared from view.

If he was ever to be attracted to a celestial being simply due to their raw, dominating power, it would be her.

“Amara,” Dean says, mind jumping four, five, six steps ahead. If Chuck won’t bring Sam back… He takes a deep breath. “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The person Chuck refers to from ‘Days of Our Lives’ is the character played by Jensen Ackles.  
> \---------  
> Chuck hasn't changed, not completely, but spending so much time away from humans is enough to make someone begin to lose their attachment to humanity. That's evident enough in that season 11 scene when Chuck is talking to Metatron where he basically mimics (in a much nicer way, of course) Lucifer's speech about humans in 'Hammer of the Gods'. He's bound to have a bit of an attitude, especially when his decisions are questioned.  
> \----------  
> Also - Happy late Steve Rogers Day! Can you believe our boy is 100 years old?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I defy the stars; I defy heaven and hell. The laws of the universe say that the man I love is lost to me. I say: watch me save him.” - Cayla

Amara doesn’t ask for an explanation. She simply responds with an irritated “I know” before moving towards her brother. She looks a bit tired, if that’s even possible for a celestial being of her status. Instead of her usual floor-length gown, she’s now wearing an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. The fact that she’s also sporting high-tops would make Dean laugh if the reason for her being there wasn’t so serious.

“Chuck,” she calls, voice sharp, and her brother immediately swivels to face her. Contrasting his previous bravado, he sounds anxious at being caught off-guard. Clearly he’s not completely gotten used to living with his sister. It’s not really his fault though; even when she’s not upset, Amara comes off as far more intimidating than her sibling will ever be.

Arms wide, Chuck gives her a big grin. “You know, sis,” he starts, forcing himself to laugh a little, “you didn’t have to come all the way down here.”

Amara pauses at his side, iron grip turning him back towards the hunter and angel. “Oh, no, believe me, I  _ did.” _

Chuck loses the fake smile and scrunches his face up in clear annoyance. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he retorts grumply, “acting like we didn’t just spend the afternoon watching golf together.”

Brow furrowed, Cas looks to Dean, but the hunter just gives him a small shrug, conveying his confusion towards the situation.

“I’m talking to you like this  _ because  _ we just spent the afternoon watching golf together.”

Offended, Chuck sputters, “What?”

Amara’s hands go to her head; she looks like she genuinely might start pulling out hairs.  _ “It’s not a fucking sport, Chuck!” _

“Yes it--- what? Yes it is!”

“Hold on,” Dean cuts in. He points to Amara. “ _ She _ can can swear but  _ you _ can’t?”

“Dean--- you just---” Chuck gestures wildly, absolutely flustered. “One ridiculous problem at a time, please.”

The hunter’s mouth pulls into a smirk;  _ this  _ is the Chuck he remembers.

“Look.” Amara crosses her arms. “They’re just going to fuck everything up even more if you don’t help them. Is that what you want?”

“Uh,” Dean starts, raising a finger, “it’s not like  _ He  _ doesn’t fuck a lot of shit up too.”

Brown eyes flick towards him. “Oh, I know, honey, but we’re talking about  _ you  _ now, not Him.”

Pulling back a little, Chuck takes a deep breath. He could give His sister a run for her money, of that Dean has no doubt. But that doesn’t mean that He still isn’t a little wary of her. “In case you haven’t been listening,” He stresses, “I  _ can’t  _ bring him back. He’s in The Empty. It’s out of my hands.”

_ The Empty? _

Dean glances in Cas’ direction, but the angel’s gaze is locked on his Father and his Aunt. The angel clearly has some understanding as to what Chuck is talking about it; all Dean can do is guess. Obviously, this place is where Lucifer went when he died and, as theorized, where Sam went as well. This confirmation does nothing but quicken the pounding of the hunter’s heart. And the name of their destination doesn’t help either: The Empty. The words hold a connotation that has Dean believing that Sam and Lucifer are together and alone once more. This begs the question as to which is worse: The Cage or The Empty?

Even more troubling is Chuck’s claim that he has no power over The Empty. Is that even possible?

“Chuck---” He starts, but Amara interrupts. 

“Actually it’s  _ not  _ out of Your hands, not technically.”

Chuck looks more exasperated than ever.  _ “What?” _

“If we  _ both  _ try at the  _ same time,”  _ she elaborates, “it’ll work.”

“No, it won’t.”

Amara closes the gap between them once more. “Yes, it will. The Empty hates  _ you,  _ not me.”

The Empty hates Chuck? A  _ location  _ hates  _ God? _

_ How…? Ah, whatever.  _

Dean rubs at his temple, deciding to question Cas later about what the hell all of this means.

“It doesn’t  _ hate  _ me,” Chuck grumbles.

With mock pity, Amara replies, “Doesn’t it, though?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter.” Chuck lays a firm hand on her shoulder, skin glowing upon contact. “ _ Clearly _ someone has to be the adult here, so I’m putting my foot down.”

Dean’s mouth falls open at His comment; he can even hear a small gasp slip from between Cas’ lips. 

Amara, to her credit, doesn’t send Him flying across the clearing. She simply cocks her head, a low rumble gathering in the back of her throat as she repeats, “You’re  _ putting your foot down?” _

It doesn’t take more than an instant for Chuck to realize his mistake. Sucking air through his teeth, his retracts his arm and hesitantly replies, “Yes?” 

The bones in Amara’s jaw click as they lock. With dark smoke gathering at her feet, she commands, voice low, “Bring… him… back.”

“You know what?” Chuck puts his hands on his hips, trying not to look perturbed by the show his sister is putting on. “If you’d known my kids as long as I have, you’d understand. Bringing  _ him _ back will also bring  _ Lucifer _ back.  _ I can’t do it.” _

“Well, if you hadn’t locked me away, maybe I would’ve gotten the  _ chance _ to know them.”

Chuck scoffs dramatically. “That’s fucking bullshhhh…” Cutting Himself off, He glances towards Dean, who has both arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

So much for much for keeping up a Godly image.

Turning to his sister, He gestures away from the other men. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

The two of them move a few yards away, exchanging heated words as they walk. Chuck’s voice becomes high-pitched and stressed while Amara’s remains deep and harsh.

Cas and Dean exchange looks. The celestial beings’ sibling rivalry is clearly still in full swing. At least they’re not trying to kill each other this time.

“Idiot!” Amara shouts.

Chuck turns back around, smile tight as he claps his hands together. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Relief washes over Dean like a waterfall. This is it. In a few moments, Sam will be here, he’ll be back, safe in his older brother’s arms. The previously intrusive thought that Lucifer could return as well doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Sam will be alive and, in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Pointing a finger in Dean’s face, then in Cas’, Chuck warns, “But from here on out, you’re on your own. I can’t keep helping you guys.”

Irritation flickers in the hunter’s chest. “You’re saying that like you’ve helped us before.” 

“Do you not remember what happened a year ago?”

Eyes wide, he fires back, “Do  _ You  _ not remember what happened a year ago?”

“Dean.” Cas touches at his elbow. “Focus on Sam.”

It’s moronic and impulsive, but all Dean really wants to do right now is kick Chuck’s--- no,  _ God’s  _ ass. He wants to punch His smug, abandoning face in, break His nose and beat the steadily growing ego out of His dumbass human form. Instead, the hunter’s anger vanishes at his brother’s name, allowing his pride to fade into the background. “It doesn’t matter.” He orders, “Just bring my brother back.

Still bitter, Chuck ignores him, instead looking to Amara and raising a single hand. 

Immediately the woman rolls her eyes, her mutter of “drama queen” not lost on her brother.

“What did you just say?” He asks.

With more than a little snark, she replies, “You heard me.” But then she raises her hand as well.

They snap their fingers at the same time, the sound of flesh colliding stealing the air from Dean’s lungs. 

_ Did it work? Did it _

“It’s done.” Chest heaving with exertion, Chuck turns his eyes on Dean. “Tell Sam I said ‘hello’.”

“Good luck, boys,” Amara adds breathily, and then both of them are gone, vanishing with much less pomp and circumstance than when they appeared.

Ignoring their goodbyes, Dean tucks the Colt inside his jacket as he turns away from the clearing. “Sam,” he breathes, and rushes towards the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s assumptions concerning The Empty are obviously flawed. But it’s also all he could really conjure up at the moment.  
> \-----------  
> Thank fucking God I can get back to writing a character I'm actually good at. I've been writing Dean as a solo character for long enough.  
> \-----------  
> And now is when it when it finally starts to get interesting.....


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Their love saved the world, their love destroyed it. It works both ways, you know. A love so powerful that saved the world, got the ingredients to destroy it. It’s the nature of things, the duality, one cannot exist without the other.“ - yaelstiel

Dean’s barely taken two steps when the Impala’s back door swings open, giving way to a disheveled but definitely alive Sam Winchester as he falls out onto the grass. 

“Sam!” Dean shouts, dropping in front of his little brother. Reaching out, he touches a hand to his face, feeling the warmth almost desperately.

With a rasping breath, the boy scrambles away, chest tight with fear and confusion. Back pressed up against the car, his eyes frantically scan Dean from head to toe, body trying to catch up, trying to understand what is going on. 

Realizing his hesitancy, Dean pulls back, kneeling down about a foot away from him. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. It’s just me, see? Just me and Cas. No one else.”

Sam’s gaze flicks to the angel, only looking back to Dean when he feels their legs touch. He’s shaking, lips trembling, but this time he allows his older brother to take his hand. “Wh---” He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. “Where---”

“Home.” Dean tightens his grip a little. “We got you out, Sam. We got you out.”

Lashes flutter as the younger man leans in, fingers clutching his brother’s blood-stained jacket. He can smell the cologne even before he presses his face into his neck, the faint scent of lavender teasing at his nose. “Dean?” He asks softly, and immediately two arms wrap around him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean breathes, tracing one hand up his back. Threading dirtied fingers through Sam’s hair, he kisses him softly on the forehead. “We’re okay. We’re finally fucking okay.” Relief has settled on his body, easing the heaving of his breath. Yet he still can’t seem the quell the anxiety that pulls at his mind.

Ten years. That’s how long it’s been since the first time the boy was killed. But then Dean made his deal with the crossroads demon and brought his brother back to life. Sam was furious with him when he found out, of course, but by then there was nothing he could do. Or at least that’s what Dean thought. Sam pushed himself well beyond his limits, both before and after Dean’s death, to try and save the older man. He ran himself ragged, eventually allowing himself to be consumed by the dark powers he realized he had swimming just below the surface.

It was after Cas pulled Dean from hell that Sam died a second time, struck by lightning after a lovestruck girl made a wish at a well that had been placed under a curse. One year later and the angel Zachariah realized that the best way to force Dean to say “yes” to Michael was through Sam. So he took the boy’s lungs. If Cas hadn’t intervened, Dean would’ve bled to death, following his little brother to the other side. Whether that would have ended up in heaven, hell, or someplace else, they didn’t know at that point. It took two more of Sam’s deaths for them to find out.

The first was Anna’s fault, after all of them went back in time during a trip that had the goal of preventing Sam’s birth. The second was when the brothers were murdered in their motel beds by two other hunters. That’s when they went to heaven, to  _ their  _ heaven. While most people have and are sequestered to their own, Sam and Dean  _ share _ a heaven, allowing them to interact with each other even after they’ve died. Unfortunately, Zachariah manipulated Sam’s heaven into leaving out every good moment he’d ever shared with Dean, an attempt on the angel’s part to again convince Dean to say “yes”.

Next was The Cage.

Sam and Dean know how lucky they are to have cheated death so many times, even though their resurrections almost always have unintended consequences. Some people believe that they’d be used to it by now, that getting killed and coming back to life so often has made it easier to die. However, both men have almost never had an issue with dying; their main concern is as to where they’ll go afterwards. In contrast, a decade of watching  _ each other _ die repeatedly has only exacerbated their fear, which was distressingly high to begin with. To put it simply, they’re terrified because they have no idea how many chances they have left.

Dean pulls back, hands cradling Sam’s cheeks. Dried blood and ooze streaks the boy’s skin; aside from that and the confusion at being resurrected, however, he seems to be fine. He even looks healthy. They lock eyes and Dean’s lips part as though he’s about to say something. But after a moment he reverts to a close-mouthed grimace and furrowed brow that has Sam drawing away.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, fear teasing at his voice.

The older man watches him for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He looks like he’s going to answer when suddenly Cas interrupts.

“Dean?”

The hunter replies without looking at him, attention focused entirely on Sam. “What?”

“You need to see this,” Cas says, the words like an order.

Rubbing at his forehead, Dean finally looks up to see his friend standing in front of the open trunk of the Impala.

_ Fuck. _

With a soft touch to Sam’s shoulder, Dean rises and moves to the back of the car. He knew this part was coming, but he’d been trying to push it out of his mind, at least until they were settled back at the bunker. Of course, Cas wasn’t keen on waiting that long.

“Fuck,” Dean murmurs, out loud this time. 

The trunk is empty. All that remains are ruined sleeves of black plastic and wisps of duct tape, the edges of which are smoldering as though what was inside actually  _ burned  _ its way out.

“Wonderful.” The hunter closes the trunk, trying not to think of how Sam is going to react when he discovers what happened. A few years ago, his gut instinct would be to lie to him, but they’ve moved past what had become a pointless, repetitive plot device. For now, he’ll hold off. But if Sam asks questions… He grimaces. “Cas?”

“Yes?”

“We’re fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY  
> \-------------  
> The quote is from this person's blog: http://yaelstiel.tumblr.com/post/119517773588/yaelstiel-their-love-saved-the-world-their  
> They're wonderful. Go follow them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told." - Patrick Rothfuss

“I heard him.”

Dean looks at Sam in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed.

Gaze locked on his shoes, the boy toes at the blood staining the leather. “Lucifer,” he elaborates. “He wasn’t there, or at least I don’t think he was.”

Cas turns in his seat. “Was it---”

“A hallucination?” Thumb presses against palm, nail digging into the skin. “No. But it wasn’t like he was standing next to me either. I could  _ feel _ his voice in the back of my mind, just… scratching.” Sam hears a soft hum and immediately pulls at his ear, forcing the sound to dissipate. “He threatened me too, but he never did anything. I don’t think he could.” He looks up at Cas, ignoring the angel’s concerned frown. “Wherever we were, I don’t think he could.”

“That sounds like The Empty,” Cas says, turning his gaze from one hunter to the other.

Dean licks his lips. “Right, so, Chuck and Amara both mentioned The Empty, but what the hell is it?”

“It’s believed to be the place where angels go after they die.” Cas tugs at his jacket, choosing not to think of what that meant for Sam. “No one truly knows, however, because no angel has ever returned from The Empty, so we have no real confirmation.”

“But Amara said that The Empty ‘hates’ Chuck. What the hell does that mean, that it ‘hates’ Chuck?”

The angel takes a deep breath. Everything he knows about this place is completely rooted in rumors and gossip. Lucifer and Gabriel were the only ones who truly invested themselves in trying to understand what it was or if it even existed. The brothers worked together, scouting locations and attempting to trick their Father into giving something away. But God was very careful, knowing that the main reason for Lucifer’s interest was the archangel’s desire to accumulate power. Gabriel’s intentions, however, were far less concerning: he was simply curious. After Lucifer’s Fall, Gabriel quit searching, the idea of discovering this afterlife now tainted. Cas briefly ponders what Gabriel would think of Sam’s story, if he would pick up where he left off so many eons ago. Biting at his lip, Cas says, “Some believe that The Empty is sentient.”

“A  _ location  _ is  _ sentient?”  _ Dean replies, sounding even more confused than before. “How can a  _ location  _ be  _ sentient?” _

“Again, Dean, we don’t truly know for sure. It is, however, believed that this sentient being both guards and has full control over The Empty, which is why my Father was not capable of bringing Sam back Himself.”

Eyes flicking towards his brother, the older Winchester sees him staring out of the window, lips pursed. He wonders for a moment if he’s even listening. “Sam?”

The boy scratches at his wrist, but it’s different than last time. He doesn’t appear to be fearful or anxious; he simply seems distracted. “It was dark,” he says almost thoughtfully. “Like I was in one of those, uh… sensory deprivation tanks?”

Dean side-eyes Cas.

“I barely felt conscious, if that makes sense. It was like I was… in between.”

“In between what?” The angel asks.

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “Heaven and hell, I guess.”

Scoffing, Dean leans into the gas pedal. “Oh, believe me, that ain’t between heaven and hell. Purgatory is what’s between heaven and hell, and it ain’t that.” He feels Cas nudge his bicep, but he just ignores him. He knows that he doesn’t have a right to be upset, that Sam is only trying to explain his experience. But he doesn’t appreciate the inference that where he spent most of his thirty-fifth year was in any way comparable to something vaguely similar to - what did he call it, a sensory deprivation tank? “Purgatory ain’t peaceful.”

“It wasn’t peaceful, Dean. It was…” The boy sighs, tired of searching for a way to describe something that neither of the other men have witnessed. At least with heaven and hell, Sam and Dean have had vaguely similar experiences. But this, a human being trapped in a more angelic afterlife, is unprecedented. “It was silence. It was nothing. Until Lucifer spoke, it was just… nothing.”

A red traffic light hangs overhead and Dean slows to a stop. “Don’t need to worry about that right now, okay, Sammy? You’re alive, you’re back, that’s all that matters, alright?” He glances towards Cas only to see the angel staring at him.  _ “Alright?”  _ He enunciates, but Cas just gives him a mocking “okay” sign before looking back out over the dash.

With an irritated grunt, Dean turns his gaze once more towards the rearview mirror, trying to catch his brother’s gaze.

Sam only looks up long enough to gesture towards the light and say, “It’s green.”

Blinking away, the older hunter turns the wheel, tires bumping over the corrupt pavement. “Let’s just get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play detective. If you can figure out what's wrong with Sam by the time I post chapter nine, I'll write you 500+ word one-shot of your choice. You provide the characters, ships, plot lines, whatever. I'll provide the rest.   
> \-------  
> In fact, if you have any requests, send me a message or comment below.  
> Refer to my bio for limitations.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you followed the urges you kept down for so long, cultivated them as the inspirations they are, you would have become someone other than yourself.” - Hannibal

“Anyone up for a drink?” Dean asks, taking the few steps up to the library.

Cas goes to exchange looks with Sam, but the boy doesn’t spare him a glance.

After their conversation about The Empty, Sam fell into a deep silence that lasted until they arrived at the bunker. Even then, all he offered up was a murmured “thanks” when the angel opened the car door for him. 

Following the brothers into the room, Cas grabs the older one by the elbow, his stiff “Dean” stopping the man in his tracks. “You understand that we have work to do.”

“Work?” Sam grins for the first time since he was resurrected. “I was only dead for, what, a day? What could  _ possibly  _ have happened over the course of  _ one day?” _

Dean immediately looks to Cas, clearly not ready to have this discussion. This couldn’t wait a few more hours, or maybe even days? Sure, he might have screwed up a little when he demanded that Chuck bring Sam back. But they must have at least earned a _little_ bit of a rest.

“It’s Lucifer.”

Or not.

“He…” Cas continues, pausing a moment to clear his throat. “He escaped.”

_ he _

The soft hum returns, buzzing in the back of Sam’s mind.

_ why _

He scratches roughly at his cheek, but this time the noise takes a few seconds longer to fade away, vanishing at the sound of two words spoken almost too low to hear:  **_Why not?_ **

A vague irritation settles on Sam’s body as he stares at Cas. “I’m sorry, what… What did you say?”

The angel’s blue flicks in Dean’s direction, unsure how to respond. Sam looks unbelievably calm. Relaxed, even. But there’s something in the stillness of his form that has a touch of worry pulling at Cas’ chest.

Sam doesn’t care for his lack of reply, moving towards him quickly, like a lion closing in on its prey. “Because it sounds like you said that Lucifer…” A shaky breath escapes him as Cas, in an attempt avoid his simmering rage, backs into the wall.  _ “Escaped.” _

“Uh…” The angel tries, books digging into his back.

Reaching out, Sam taps a single finger against the collar of Cas’ shirt. “However did that happen?” He murmurs playfully.

“Sam---” Dean cuts in, but that only makes things worse.

The younger man quickly moves his hand across Cas’ skin, catching him by the throat and sliding him up against the wall. Pleasure shoots through his veins as the angel grapples with his arm, clawing at the bloodstained flesh in a vain attempt to find some air. “I told you not to bring me back, I  _ told  _ you. But did you listen?”

Again, Cas doesn’t even try for a reply. Nails dig into Sam’s skin but quickly loosen as the hunter pulls him closer and then slams him back against the bookcase.

_ “Did. You. Listen.”  _ He shakes Cas, the sound of the latter man’s head hitting the wall punctuating the former’s every word. 

It takes a few more moments, but the angel finally shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice strained.

“No.” Lips pursed mockingly, Sam relaxes his grip. “No, you did not.” It’s then that a hand suddenly touches his arm, and the boy reflexively shoves the offending person aside. As opposed to the norm, however, the person isn’t pushed back a few feet; instead they are sent flying across the room, body slamming unceremoniously against one of the bookcases, a dozen texts following them to the floor.

Sam drops back the moment he realizes that it was  _ Dean  _ he shoved, that it was  _ Dean  _ he hurt. Gasping a little, he releases his grip on Cas. “I, uh… I’m sorry.” His eyes go from his brother to his friend, words stumbling over one another as he retreats towards the hall. “I’m--- I’m sorry.” Then, with flushed face and a near-trip over a wayward chair, he flees the room.

Dean’s gaze follows him out. Pressing a hand against the side of his head, he pulls himself into a sitting position. It only takes a quick glance in Cas’ direction to note that the angel is about to say something. “I don’t wanna hear it, alright?” Dean cuts him off. “Give him some time. He just came back from the dead.”

Folding his hands in front of him, Cas watches the man get to his feet. “Dean…” He pauses briefly, trying to find the best way to word what he wants to say next. “Just now, while he was holding me, his eyes changed.”

Shoulders readjust as Dean repeats, “Changed?”

“They were no longer... Uh, it was as if…”

“As if what?”

Cas takes a breath. Telling Dean this will only worry him, especially since it might all have been in the angel’s head. The past few days have been stressful enough to make that possible. “The point is, Sam is not himself.”

“Look.” Dean raises a hand. “He’s not hallucinating and he’s not soulless. I think we can count that as a win.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth begs to pull into a frown, so he just turns his face away. “Let him be right,” he murmurs to himself. “Please, Father, let him be right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy! Sam really is fucked up.  
> \-------  
> Real quick: if I don't reply to your theories, it's not necessarily because you're wrong. I just know that I might accidentally give more clues than I'd like. Your initial guess obviously doesn't have to be your final one.  
> \-------  
> Also! I've really enjoyed reading the theories thus far! One or two of you are closing in on it.  
> \-------  
> I've gotten a new job that allows me to sit on my laptop for four hours, so the updates will probably be more consistent than usual. The next chapter, however, will be a great deal longer than the past two, so it might take a couple of days. I'm halfway through the three and a half pages of notes for the next chapter, and I've already written three pages.  
> \-------  
> It's also the next chapter that will allow you the most clues. Though it always is possible that things aren't what they seem...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Things never happen the same way twice, dear…” - C.S. Lewis

Sam walks briskly down the hall, scratching mindlessly at the dried blood and ooze that layers his skin. It’s itchy and invasive, but that’s been the least irritating part at being brought back from the dead. Dean is treating him like a fragile, little teacup; Cas, on the other hand, has been completely standoffish. Even before the boy attacked him, the angel had a look in his eyes that said he didn’t trust him. Not that it matters all that much. Everything should be back to normal soon enough. The only thing that genuinely worries him is the voice teasing at the back of his mind. At first it was merely a whisper, but it’s begun to grow in volume. Sam doesn’t know for sure who he’s hearing, but he can venture a guess.

He’s barely entered his room when suddenly a slice of agony rips through him. Breath stolen, he retreats two steps, pausing only once the pain dissipates. His heart flutters inside his chest as he carefully reaches out with one arm. It’s once its fully extended that the veins in his hand begin to glow, the gold colour immediately accompanied once again by a shocking but much less extreme pain. Retracting his arm, he scans the room, eyes washing over his desk, his dresser, his bed. But there’s nothing to suggest an answer.

_ then where _

**_Up._ **

Shoulders tight, Sam looks towards the ceiling.

The angel trap.

Dean spray-painted it earlier, in the unlikely event that Lucifer managed to corner Sam inside his bedroom.

“What…?” Confused, the boy drops his gaze, blinking as his hair falls in front of his face. And what he sees makes his heart beat even faster. Amongst the light brunette are a few strands of dirty-blonde. Gasping a little, Sam calls out, “Dean?” but he isn’t nearly loud enough. “Dean!” he shouts after a few more moments, and it’s barely ten seconds later that his brother is standing in his doorway.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asks.

Sam winces internally at the red mark over Dean’s cheekbone, at the flesh that is already beginning to swell. “Could you, uh…” He clears his throat. “Could you do me a favor?”

Dean crosses his arms. “Maybe,” he replies, but even though he’s clearing trying for a joke, Sam can feel a tingle of irritation in his fingertips. “What’s up?”

“The angel trap.” The boy points at the ceiling, careful not to move too much. “Not great for the memories, you know?”

Confusion flickers across Dean’s face, but it doesn’t last very long. He’s obviously still trying to cling to the hope that everything is alright. “Yeah, of course. I’ll go get a scraper.” Gesturing towards the far corner of the room, he adds, “Grab the ladder. I left it by your desk.”

Once Dean leaves, Sam allows himself a quiet “Fuck!” The ladder is too far away for him to reach, and he really doesn’t want to tell his brother what’s going on, not yet. It’s clear that there’s still some lingering anxiety over what happened yesterday, though Sam doesn’t really understand why. He’s alive now. It’s over. Yes, they still need to track Lucifer down, but---

**Re** **_-track._ **

_ fuck off _

“Sam?” 

The boy looks back towards the doorway to see Dean standing there, scraper in hand, that same look of confusion and discomfort on his face. Pulling at his ruined sleeves, Sam asks, “Could you---”

“Get the ladder too?” The older hunter sighs at the poorly-faked grin his brother has chosen to sport. “Alright, Sam, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” He can see Dean picking at the tool’s rubber handle.

“You’ve been actin’ kinda funky since we got back. And, well, according to Cas, that’s probably understating things.”

“I was dead. Now I’m alive. And I don’t like angel shit on my ceiling.” Crossing his arms, Sam finishes, “That’s it.”

“Fine.” Dean matches his brother’s stance. “Then get the ladder.”

Sam laughs tightly, the sound uncomfortably foreign to the older hunter’s ears.

But Dean raises his eyebrows anyway, silently communicating that this is non-negotiable.

The disconcerting smile on Sam’s face vanishes and is immediately replace by too tightly-gritted teeth. “Alright, fine.” He extends his arm without hesitation, trying not to grimace as the veins glow and the pain pulses through him once more.

It doesn’t take more than half a second for Dean to understand, and horror streaks across his expression. “What the hell?” He gasps, dropping the scraper as he slips the Colt from his jeans and points it directly at Sam.

Hands shoot into the air. “Woah, hey, take it easy!” The boy protests, fully aware of his inability to escape. “It’s me, it’s Sam!”

“Fat fucking chance.” Careful to stay out of reach, Dean moves forward, pointer finger skimming the trigger. “Who are you?”

Sam’s mouth opens and shuts as he stumbles over an answer. 

_ “Who are you!” _

_ “Me!”  _ The boy shouts. “It’s  _ me!” _

The slight tremor of the gun is proof of Dean’s hesitation. “Then explain...” He gestures aimlessly. “...this. Explain all of this.”

“I  _ can’t.” _

Curling his toes, Dean realizes how damp his feet are. It’s a silly, unnecessary thought, but the feeling is beyond obtrusive. He’s been wearing these boots for almost two days straight, and the same goes for his clothes. But his torso isn’t only slick with sweat; the crusted ooze and blood from when he held Sam in his arms prickles annoyingly at his skin. A bucket of detergent and a very long shower would be an appropriate cure for both his clothes  _ and _ himself. Conversely, Sam’s flannel hangs loosely from his frame, only the bottom few buttons still intact. The gaping hole in his chest is now a thick, white scar, but Dean still can’t bear to look at it. Making matters worse, he noticed the streak of blonde a long time ago, before they’d even begun their drive back to the bunker. He knows that he probably should have told Sam, that he should have warned him, but he hesitated. He’d say that he was trying to protect his brother, but is that really the truth?

“Dean."

The older hunter lowers his gun, but his eyes remain glued on Sam. Though there’s something else that the boy should know, they need to sort this out first. There will be more than enough time later for Dean to point out something that could traumatize him even more. For now, however… “Cas!” He calls, gaze unwavering. “Get the fuck over here!”

The angel appears almost instantly, even his sudden “yes?” not enough to knock Dean out of his focus.

“Something’s wrong with Sam.”

Cas isn’t usually the type to roll his eyes but, if any statement warranted such a thing, this would be it. “Clearly.”

“No, I mean---” Dean smacks his friend’s chest. “Shut up, dickhead, and look at him. He’s stuck.”

Gaze flicking from the angel trap to the younger hunter, Cas’ mouth falls open, unfortunately just as confused as everyone else. “I don’t understand.”

“Is he possessed?”

“No, of course not.” The angel shakes his head. “If he was, I would know.”

A teasing grin pulls at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “You sure about that?” He asks, the fear in his eyes heavily contrasting the humor in his voice.

“Yes,” Cas replies. Feeling Dean’s heavy glare, he turns to him too and repeats, more firmly this time,  _ “Yes.” _

The older hunter runs a hand through his hair, dried blood catching beneath the nails. “So what the hell is wrong with him?”

“I, uh…” Cas clears his throat. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

Sam crosses his arms. “Speak away, Agent Crawford.”

The angel takes Dean by the arm. “Alone.”

Scoffing, the boy turns away. “Of course.”

Realizing that Dean is about to answer him, Cas pulls his friend out into the hall. “We have a problem.”

If their situation weren’t so serious, the older Winchester would laugh. “You think?”

“No, Dean, listen to me. The way Sam is acting, do you recognize it?”

A knot forms into Dean’s stomach. He’d been avoiding the thought since the moment his brother took Cas by the throat. “You don’t think that---”

“He’s soulless?” Brow furrowed, the angel shakes his head. “It’s unlikely. When he apologized earlier, it was with sincerity. He would not be capable of that if he had no soul.”

“But he’s still acting like he did when he was soulless, like---”

“Like an asshole?” Cas interrupts, and he hears an immediate burst of laughter from inside the bedroom.

“Nice language, Cassie,” Sam calls out, prompting the angel to drag Dean further down the hall. 

Lowering his voice, Cas leans into his friend’s space. “I should still touch it.”

“Say again?” Dean sputters.

“His soul. I should touch it to make sure it’s intact.”

The hunter sighs, the sound shaky and unsure. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “Fine.”

Cas does his best to catch his gaze. “I will have to render him unconscious for this.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“You’ve seen how strong he is.” The angel is frowning, not quite ready for this. “He may not remain still otherwise.”

Leaning back against the wall, Dean closes his eyes. How is he supposed to do this? He’s trying to pretend that everything is alright, even though there is a distressing amount of evidence to the contrary. Maybe this is just a fluke. Maybe it’s something that’ll wear off as time goes on. Maybe

“Two bros! Chillin’ in a hallway! Five feet apart ‘cause they’re---”

“Okay!” Dean shouts, cutting Sam off. “That’s enough.” Walking back into the room, he gestures at the angel. “Cas?”

Careful not to step into the trap, Cas walks right up to Sam and presses two fingers against his forehead.

Nothing happens.

There’s no gentle gasp or loud thump of the boy’s body hitting the floor. All that changes are the looks on everyone’s faces: Cas and Dean’s to those of confusion, and Sam’s to one of great offense.

“Were you…” Sam cocks his head. “...trying to knock me out?” 

The lack of response is all the answer he needs. 

_ “Seriously?” _

There’s a stutter in Cas’ voice as he tries another “I don’t understand.”

“Say it a third time,” Sam says, the words tinged with annoyance. “Maybe then it’ll make sense.”

“Okay, look.” Dean slowly circles his little brother. “Obviously this ain’t gonna work the old fashioned way, so just we’re gonna need you to stay still.”

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ the boy insists.

“No.” Dean pauses directly behind Sam. “You’re not. Listen, Sammy, I’m fuckin’ ecstatic that you’re back---”

“Ecstatic?”

“But dying obviously got you all fucked up. So just let Cas check you out, alright?” He steps into the trap, hands slipping around Sam’s biceps and interlocking over his sternum. “Don’t throw me across the room; I’m just trying to help.”

A light pink colours Sam’s cheeks, but he doesn’t resist. Instead, he locks his jaw and gives Cas a nod, affirming that he’s ready.

One hand firm on the boy’s shoulder, Cas gently reaches forwards, pressing glowing fingers into Sam’s stomach.

The moment Sam feels the angel’s touch is the moment a rush of pain pulses through him. Strangely enough, however, it’s not even close to the agony he experienced when Cas did the same thing all those years ago. That time, if it weren’t for the belt, he might’ve bit off his tongue. Now it doesn’t feel much worse than when he’s needed to stitch up a wound after a bad hunt.

It’s barely been five seconds, however, when Cas jumps back with a shout of pain and surprise. Curling his reddening hand into a fist, he tucks it inside his jacket. “No,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for the others to hear. “No, that’s not possible, that’s not---”

“Hey, Mr. Tibbs.” Sam pulls free of Dean’s grasp and gives Cas an encouraging nod. “You mind sharing with the class?”

“I, uh… I have to…” The angel’s lips flutter as though he means to speak but can’t find the words. “Sorry,” he says finally, and quickly leaves the room.

Giving Sam’s arm a light squeeze, Dean orders, “Don’t move,” before following Cas out.

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Sam replies with an overdramatic shrug, but he’s already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for guesses! Again, whoever is closest will get a 500-word one-shot of their choice (rules and limitations in my bio). It'll probably take me about a week to get up the next chapter because I still need to arrange the dialogue, so y'all have time. Good luck!  
> \------  
> Sam is........ fucked up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection.” - Nathaniel Orion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, kids...

Cas has made it to the library before Dean manages to catch up with him.

But even after seeing the panic streak across his friend’s face, one part of the hunter still doesn’t want to know what he uncovered.

Red fingers peek out from inside Cas’ sleeve, the knuckles only bone, the flesh that once covered them now burned away. And when Dean grabs him by the elbow, his body immediately tenses up, screaming nerves trying to flee from the pain.

“Hey.” The hunter tugs lightly at his coat. “What the hell is going on?”

Lies clamor up the base of Cas’ spine; he knows that if he doesn’t tell Dean the truth now, he’ll never tell him at all. One deep breath, and then: “It’s Lucifer.”

“Excuse me?” There isn’t a single part of Dean that doesn’t feel the power of that name, the terror and rage that it instills, even in him. He doesn’t want to imagine what Sam’s reaction would be if he were here with them right now.

Cas turns around slowly, avoiding his friend’s eyes. How does he explain this without destroying every bit of happiness that Dean has reclaimed after bringing his brother back to life? How does he explain that the man trapped in Sam’s room isn’t who he thinks he is? “When I touched him, I… I felt Lucifer.”

Thoughts itch at the back of Dean’s mind, thoughts of  _ This can’t be happening, not again.  _ “You tellin’ me he’s got archangel grace inside him?”  _ Not again. _

“It might not just be the grace.” Cas can feel the hunter staring at him, and finally he looks up. “It’s possible that part of Lucifer is possessing him as well.”

Scraping nails against the skin behind his ear, Dean replies, “That’s--- that’s not possible. We saved him, right? We got him out and, hey---” He tries for a smile, as though he’s caught the angel in a lie. “He didn’t say “yes”, so Lucifer  _ can’t  _ be possessing him.”

“Earlier, do you remember when I mentioned his eyes?”

“Yeah?”

“I did so because they turned  _ red,”  _ Cas stresses. There’s no stopping this train, not now; he might as well tell him everything. “They began to glow in the same way Lucifer’s do. You’ve also seen his hair, as well as his---”

“No, look, okay? He’s fine. He just…” Dean waves a hand. “He just has to adjust. Last time he was with Lucifer, it took awhile for him to come back from that too.”

The angel clears his throat. “That’s because he was completely soulless.”

“Exactly. But this time he  _ has  _ a soul, so…” Dean trails off when he sees the look on Cas’ face. He’s not one to avoid jumping to conclusions, but not this, not now.  _ Not again.  _ “Why did you say ‘completely’?”

“Lucifer’s grace isn’t the only problem. It appears…” The angel winces as the muscles in his fingers crawl over the exposed bones. “It appears that half of Sam’s soul is missing as well.”

“What the fuck is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

“One half of Sam is human, the other half angel.” Cas gestures towards the bedroom. “Lucifer.”

Eyes closed and chest tight, Dean turns aside. “How…” Lashes flutter as he tries to regulate his breathing. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.”

The hunter whirls towards Cas, inches away from his face as he spits, “Well, how about a  _ fucking guess?” _

Feet stutter across the floor as the angel takes a few steps back. He’s no fool; he knows Dean’s track record when it comes to his anger. “The most likely theory is that, while Sam and Lucifer were in The Empty, they merged into one being. That’s probably why Sam could hear his voice.”

_ “And?” _

_ “And  _ when they were resurrected, they would have been torn apart, each keeping a piece of the other with them.” Cas’ brow furrows as he adds, almost to himself, “It would surprise me if Sam does not hear him still.”

“Why can’t Lucifer just leave?” He’s grasping now, grasping at anything and everything that could explain away what Cas is saying. This wasn’t supposed to happen to Sam.  _ Not again.  _ “Angels, demons, they can leave at will, can’t they?”

Cas shrugs reluctantly. “The odds are high that the part of Lucifer that managed to hold on is now a part of Sam.”

“Well, how the hell do we yank him out?”

The angel’s mouth contorts into a frown; he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

_ “Cas?” _

“I don’t know,” he says for what seems like the hundredth time that day. “And even if I did, we still need to retrieve the rest of Sam’s soul.”

Dean crosses his arms. “Which means not only do we have to find a way to get Lucifer out of Sam, we have to find Lucifer  _ himself.” _

“Correct.”

“Great.” Bones click as the hunter locks his jaw. “So, just to recap, _part of_ _Lucifer_ is possessing my brother, and he _also_ only has half a soul.”

“Part angel, part human.” Objectively, Cas finds what has happened to Sam extremely interesting. In a controlled setting, it would be a curious thing to explore. But the entity that flirts with what’s left of Sam’s soul is far too dangerous to even consider examining. “Your brother is an anomaly, as is the norm.”

“You think this is funny?” Dean asks, the words a definite threat. He’s hoping for a fight, but the angel knows better than to give it to him.

“Not in the slightest.”

It takes a few moments, but eventually the anger flitting in the hunter’s chest begins to dissipate. This isn’t about him; this is about  _ Sam.  _ This is about figuring out what to do and even where to begin, but it’s also about speaking the truth. “I have to tell him,” Dean decides, but he’s barely turned towards the hall when five half-healed fingers take him by the arm. 

“Dean, wait.”

With a heavy exhale, the hunter pauses, not even turning to his friend as he murmurs, “I can’t lie about this, Cas. It doesn’t work with us. We always end up screwed.”

The angel, gripping his bicep more tightly, pulls him back around. The recovery to his fingers has slowed, the constant use causing a strain on the flesh so desperate to heal. “Listen. With Lucifer possessing Sam, it is possible that he has a limited amount of archangel powers. You’re probably already aware, but Lucifer is one of the most powerful of my Father’s creations. He’s stronger than Gabriel and Raphael, and it’s a definite possibility that he’s even stronger than Michael. He is, at the very least, an equal match. And if Sam knew that he possessed these powers, with only half his soul left…” He gives Dean a look, eyebrows raised in expectation.

Glancing away, the hunter finishes quietly, “He might use them.”

“Exactly.” Cas releases his hold. “Do him the favor of waiting until we find a solution. There is no need to lie, only to avoid the question.”

Dean can feel the intense discomfort teasing at his stomach, the idea of again choosing to deceive his little brother filling his mouth with bile. He knows that he has to remain objective about this, that what Cas is saying could come to pass. It was difficult enough to control Sam when he was soulless; it was even more difficult to handle him when he was Lucifer. To have a semblance of both occur at the same time always seemed so impossible that he’d never even thought to consider what he would do if the situation arose. The soulless version of his brother would’ve used Lucifer’s powers in an instant, if only out of curiosity. But he might have at least considered Dean’s advice, much like he did so many years ago when he used the older hunter as his own personal Jiminy Cricket. But with Lucifer seeming to actually control some of Sam’s actions, the very idea of the absolute destruction that they could cause together is almost terrifying. Lucifer is consistent threat to the earth, if only because he does most everything for his own amusement. Even when he prompted the start of the apocalypse, it was obvious from the self-satisfied grin on his face and the excited heaving of his chest that this was more about destroying his brother and half the planet; it was also about getting off. Dean does not want to imagine what Sam would do if he knew that he could delve into the candy jar of Lucifer’s powers, especially with only half a soul to hold him back.

“One day.” Dean holds up a single finger. “That’s all I’m giving you.”

Knowing he won’t get a better deal than that, Cas replies, “Understood.”

The hunter nods to himself, not at all satisfied but trying to convince himself that he is. “Alright, wait here. I’ll free Sam and then we can get to work.” Not waiting for a response, he heads toward the hall. He’s not even through the archway when Cas calls his name: “Dean.”

Turning only his head, the hunter looks back at his friend.

Cas sits down at the table before warning him one last time: “Don’t tell him.”

With great reluctance, Dean nods once more, then finally leaves the room.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to apologize if this isn't what some of you were looking for. But this Sam that we're going to experience over the next couple dozen chapters? He's both distressed and ruthless as hell. And in case any of you were worried, we'll be getting to see what Lucifer struggling with a soul is like too.  
> \---------  
> As for the contest!  
> QuestionableSanity won for earliest correct guess and Caramiela won for most specific correct synopsis. You two can either comment a prompt or send me a message on tumblr (the link is in my bio). Also in my bio are any guidelines I have for my writing.  
> \---------  
> Thank you everyone else for guessing! You were all so incredibly close that I actually had to poll my friends. I’ll be starting the above two’s prompts first, but if any of you ever have a one-shot you’d like written, just hit me up! I’m always looking for something to write.  
> \---------  
> I'm going to do a few more things like this throughout the book. Not necessarily contests, but little suggestions that you guys might have for certain things. For example: what kind of drink would this Sam order at a bar?  
> Things like that. I'll probably do this at the end of almost every chapter. Whichever suggestion is posted first is the one I'm going to use, no matter how ridiculous it is.  
> So let's start off with that question: exactly what kind of drink would this current Sam order at a bar?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s just another lost boy, with hollow eyes, reaching for the sun. And if we’re all stories in the end, then he must have been written to be just another goddamn tragedy.” - p.d.

Dean walks into Sam’s room in complete silence, ignoring his brother’s expectant look as he picks the paint scraper up off of the floor. Saying as little as possible is definitely the best route to take for right now. It’s not as though he isn’t well-versed in keeping secrets; both men have experience with that. But this is bigger than anything Sam has dealt with before, and it’d probably be best if Dean tells him before he figures it out himself.

Taking the ladder from beside the boy’s desk, Dean sets it up directly below the border of the angel trap. He climbs up and swiftly etches a line through the spray paint, thinking the sooner he leaves the room, the better. Unfortunately, his feet have barely hit the floor when he hears Sam ask, “Care to explain?”

Dean takes the ladder down, the truth tapping the back of his teeth. With a heavy breath he reminds himself that he doesn’t need to lie, just push the question aside.

“Yeah, uh, later,” he says. “We’re still trying to figure it out.”

_See? Not lying, not technically._

Sam might be unaware of what’s going on in his own body, but he’s not a complete dumbass. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

Standing in the doorway, ladder slid over one shoulder, the older man sighs. He can’t do this with him, not right now. “Sam…”

Immediately sensing that he might be at the beginning of a lecture about the importance of being patient, the boy cuts in, “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a little tired. You, know from being dead and all.” Gesturing towards the bed, he continues, “You mind if…?”

Dean’s relief is blatantly obvious as he quickly says, “Yeah, sure.” He moves out of the room. “Yell if you need me.”

That tight grin back on his face, Sam replies, “Will do.” He watches his brother until he disappears down the hall, then immediately closes the door, the smile dropping as he leans against the wood. He can feel a subtle panic threatening at his chest and he closes his eyes.

_breathe_

**_Alone at last._ **

The voice cuts through him like a knife, nearly forcing a cry from his lips as he turns and races towards the bathroom. Hands touch down on the sink, clutching the porcelain as though his life depends on it. He looks into the mirror without any hesitation, and what he sees horrifies him.

A dirty-blonde wave brushes against his right temple, the end slipping just past the curve of his cheekbone. And then there are his eyes: the left one still a beautiful green while the right one is now an undeniable blue.

_what is happening god what is happening_

The hair, the eyes, they’re horrifying enough, but suddenly Sam feels like Lucifer’s hands are on him, like ten threatening fingers are crawling down the sides of his face. A phantom thumb hooks around his bottom lip and pries his mouth open, the wet tongue that slides across his jaw like a nightmare come to life.

**_Tastes like sweat..._ **

_he’s not real_

**_..and me._ **

A loud gasp escapes him and he immediately goes for the drawers below the sink. Pushing aside various hair products, he tosses combs, toothbrushes, and cologne on the floor, not once wincing as he dirties his bathroom.

_where where where_

**_For fucks sake, Sammy. Take it easy._ **

Finally he finds what he’s looking for. Slipping a pair of scissors from a small, grey bag, he returns to the mirror and takes the blonde hair in his grasp. Then, without a single thought, he cuts off every single strand.

**_Alright, I get it. Bit over the top, but not unexpected._ **

The boy’s breathing calms for the briefest of moments, but the terror he feels suddenly returns as he notices how the short, blonde locks are slowly growing back.

**_Well, ain’t that something?_ **

This time Sam speaks aloud, his murmurs of “No, no, no, no, no” almost like an encouragement to the archangel he is still trying to convince himself is just a return of his hallucinations. He lifts the scissors up and chops the waves off once more.

**_It’s not gonna work, Sam._ **

The hair grows back even faster this time; it could even be argued that it’s also a bit longer.

**_Hey, I think it’s nice._ **

With shaky breaths, Sam whispers, “Oh God, please, no.”

**_I always wondered what you’d look like as a blonde. Guess I’ll have to settle for this._ **

The boy drops the scissors in the sink.

 **_And what about that_ ** **eye?** **_That’s really something else, you know? If you don’t mind me saying, Sammy - not that you’ve really got a choice - you look mighty fine. Fine as_ ** **hell** **_, one might say._ **

Sam can control him, he _knows_ that he can control him. Being clear-headed enough to stop harming Cas is at least marginal proof of that.

**_D’you know how many guys you could pick up, looking like this?_ **

_he’s not real_

**_If_ ** **I** **_saw you walking into a bar, I’d come right up, grab your pretty self by the cock, and tell you_ ** **exactly** **_what I was going to do to you._ **

_he’s not he’s not are you listening he’s not_

**_Maybe even have you go down on me underneath one of the tables._ **

_don’t let him get to you don’t give him that power_

**_Of course, once everyone had left, I’d bend you over the bar and_ **

“Shut _up!”_ Sam shouts, and he slams his fist as hard as he can against the mirror. The glass shatters immediately, as does the backboard, his fist strong enough to even make a dent in the wall behind. He barely notices what he’s done, more focused on the fact that he’s not in any pain. He punched at least six inches into the wall of his room, and he doesn’t feel even a _semblance_ of agony. Drawing back, he notices the blood spotting his knuckles.

**_I really have missed this, Sam._ **

Chest heaving with exertion, the hunter looks to what remains of the mirror. The bits of glass stare back at him, glaring a horrifying truth. As the anger he feels begins to fade, so does the red that fills his eyes.

**_Us._ **

The tiny bit of panic in his stomach begins to grow, not only in response to Lucifer’s voice, but also to whatever is going on inside his head. It’s become quite clear that it has nothing to do with his hallucinations. Both before and during his stay in the hospital, Lucifer had no control over his body. He certainly scared him half to death, but he was unable to personally direct Sam’s actions. The only time he’s ever been able to do that was during the boy’s possession and when they were in The Cage. Sam shoves the latter idea aside; whether it’s true or not, the insinuation that he is still in The Cage is something he prefers not be discussed. As for being possessed…

Sam tugs on his flannel, picking at a smatter of dried blood. He decides that he’s not going to think about that either. Let Dean and Cas figure this out and, assuming they already have, let them wait a little while before destroying Sam’s life. He really could use a bit of a break.

But the universe is cruel, and it’s _always_ been even crueler to Sam Winchester. With his flannel gently pulled aside, he notices the edge of a burn directly over his heart. Hesitation pokes at his fingertips, but so does an intense curiosity. And so, after not even ten seconds of deliberation, he draws back the left side of his shirt.

Terror freezes up his lungs and suddenly Sam can’t breathe.

On his chest is burned a symbol which he last saw drawn onto an icy window in that abandoned building in Detroit: a pitchfork.

_no_

An angry, swollen red outlines the marred flesh, the lines just thick enough to have been burned into the skin by a single archangelic finger.

And suddenly Lucifer isn’t only touching his face, the soft digits also wandering over his pecs, his ribs, his stomach. Invisible hands slide up his calves and over his thighs, tightening as they work their way towards his hips. He can feel sharp nails scraping across his waistline, threatening at any moment to slip beneath the lip of his jeans.

His entire body is on fire, not one inch of him untouched, every part begging to escape something that is undoubtedly permanent.

_NO_

Gasping, Sam tears off his shirt, too awash with panic to notice the buttons he’s scattered across the floor. Eyes blurred with tears, he claws at the burn. It takes only moments for the skin to grow raw, but there’s no point to his actions; the marks fade almost instantly. Even more frantic, he grabs the scissors from the sink, trembling fingers struggling to slip through the hoops. Eventually he gives up, taking them in his fist and stabbing himself in the chest. The slight flutter of pain is easy to push aside as he slowly saws through the flesh surrounding the pitchfork. Blood slips quickly from the gruesome wound, but he ignores that as well, muddled brain refusing to acknowledge the red that soon coats his hand. He’s just made a full circle around the burn and is about to dig the scissor in further to remove the chunk of marred flesh when he realizes that this cut is beginning to heal as well. Yanking the tool free of his chest, he watches as the wound closes itself up.

A darkness seeps into his vision, and he leans against the sink, trying to slow his breathing. He can feel a scream scraping at his throat, begging to be released. He looks up at the mirror one more time before turning away and shoving the scissors back into his chest. This time he pulls them out almost immediately, but then he stabs himself again. And again and again and again, one for every person he’s ever gotten killed. It’s when he’s sixteen cuts in

_adam_

that his vision goes and his legs finally give out.

Every single one of his wounds has healed before he hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's been a month. Yes, I'm sorry. But please don't worry. Unlike the books I've (temporarily) abandoned, all of the dialogue from chapters one through fifty-something have all been written. It's just up to my dumb ass to write it all out.  
> \--------  
> I cannot WAIT for you guys to see what our boy is like once he's back on his feet.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have to convince yourself, the lion is not in the room." - Hannibal Lecter

_ Sam.  _

A warm breath against tanned skin. 

_ Can you hear me? _

Fingers touch arms too numb to jerk away, and pull red-stained scissors free of a loosening grasp. 

_ I’ve got you.  _

The words are with love but without point as they barely break through the silence of a mind deafened by fear. 

_ Don’t worry, Sammy. _

Like hands banging against a wall, nails bleeding as they scrabble at unyielding cement, the whisper chips away at the metaphorical barricade until finally one stone is knocked loose, and--- 

There he is.

Dean watches as Sam’s eyes finally adjust, one green and one blue looking up at him with a pain that he has no idea how to alleviate. 

He wants to turn on Cas now, to take him by the collar and scream that  _ I was right, we should have told him, why didn’t you fucking listen to me? _

But he doesn’t. Instead he touches a hand to Sam’s cheek, forcing their gazes to stay connected. He doesn’t want his brother to see yet the aftereffects of what he did to himself, how the bathroom looks the very definition of a crime scene. The floor is slick with blood, small chunks of flesh caught between the squares of tile. Red mixes with the bit of vomit that dribbles over Sam’s lips and down his chin, but the boy doesn’t move to wipe it away. He doesn’t move to do anything.

“How ‘bout, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “How ‘bout we get you cleaned up a little, huh?” He feels Cas shift behind him, the bottom of the trench brushing against his back. Dean doesn’t have to turn around to realize the angel’s discomfort. “I can handle this,” he says, voice perhaps a bit too thin.

Cas disregards his tone as he squeezes his shoulder and softly replies, “I’ll be inside.” Then he leaves the room.

Watching Sam carefully, Dean moves away from his brother and turns on the tub. He runs his fingers under the water, testing it until it is just past lukewarm. 

Half a decade ago, during the Trials, Sam had a fever so high that Dean was forced to submerge him in an ice bath to bring his temperature down. He saved his life, and the younger man was grateful, but it wasn’t until a year later that Sam explained the reason behind his screaming terror when he awoke in that bath. There was the shock of being underwater, of course. But far worse was the cold, the searing burn that was sent roaring through his veins the moment he was submerged in the ice. “Most people think he burns hot,” Sam said, purposely quoting  _ Him,  _ purposely drawing them both back to that abandoned house in Detroit where Lucifer traced a pitchfork onto a frozen pane of glass. “It’s actually quite the opposite,” Dean finished quietly, finally understanding that it wasn’t because of confusion that Sam had shoved him away upon climbing out of the ice bath; it was because he had been locked in a flashback, a hallucination, a nightmare, and when Dean put his hands on him, it probably wasn’t Dean’s hands he felt. 

That ice bath saved Sam’s life, and not once has either man regretted it. But in the back of Dean’s mind there still lingers an unrelenting anguish over how Lucifer has managed to warp so many normal things in Sam’s life into something traumatizing. While the younger hunter rarely ate much meat before, any animal that’s been sliced and diced is now difficult for him to get down, especially if he has to kill and cook it himself. He has trouble forming any sort of close relationships with men outside of Dean and Cas, assumedly out of cautious fear that they might hurt him. Dean thought that maybe something might’ve come out of Sam’s friendship with Max Banes but, when it didn’t, he approached the witch himself and boldly asked him why he never asked his little brother out. 

They’d flirted a little during Asa Fox’s funeral, Max said (Dean knew this already, and would’ve scolded him if not for the fact that he himself has done much worse), but Sam had seemed on the verge of fleeing the room whenever Max had edged towards asking him to dinner. Initially Max had thought that, for the first time in his life, he was misreading signals and he had accidentally been flirting with someone who  _ wasn’t  _ attracted to men. But that foolish thought only lasted a moment - this was Sam Winchester he was talking to - and instead he was reminded of how Sam acted when his possession by Lucifer was brought up a few hours earlier. The looks of panic were mirror images of each other, which is why Max decided against continuing to lobby for a date. He still keeps in contact with Sam, as far as Dean is aware, but he’s never tried to pursue anything more out of fear of scaring the younger hunter away.

Dean wipes his hands on his jeans. “Okay,” he says, finally certain that the water is neither too cold nor too hot. “Let’s go.” He steps into Sam’s line of sight, ensuring that he sees him before taking him by the elbow and helping him to his feet. Hesitation lingers in his chest for a moment, a good ten seconds passing before he works up the courage to reach towards his brother’s belt. He expects Sam to bat his hand away, or at the very least lurch backwards, but the boy isn’t capable of more than a shuddering breath.

So, moving carefully, Dean unbuckles Sam’s belt, sliding the leather through the loops as quickly as he can and tossing it into the bedroom. Touching two fingers to the button on Sam’s jeans, he asks, “You good?” And he knows it’s a stupid question, but his brother reaches out slowly and takes his shirt in his grasp as though to prepare himself, signaling what Dean already knows:  _ no, it’s not okay, but do what you have to do. _

Doing his best not to touch Sam’s naked stomach, Dean unbuttons his pants and tugs them down his legs. He hoists one of Sam’s feet up in the air, and then the other, pulling off socks, shoes, and jeans in just two swift movements. Finally they’re down to just Sam’s boxer briefs, and Dean takes him by the hand, squeezing those long, thin fingers until the boy finally looks down at him. 

“Is it okay if I…?” Dean trails off, watching as his brother’s eyes blink away from him. “Sammy?” He calls.

It takes a few moments more, and it’s almost imperceptible, but the boy finally nods.

Dean finishes undressing him, placing the underwear on top of the pile of dirty clothes and scooting them all aside. He’s not sure why he’s being so neat; he’s going to have to scrub all of the clothes - and the entire bathroom - down anway. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s  _ Sam’s  _ bathroom. God knows if it was his own, the pile would probably sit beneath the sink for a week - until it began to smell or until he ran out of clean things to wear, whichever came first.

Taking Sam by the hand, he helps him step carefully into the tub, continuing to keep a firm grip on him until he’s finally sitting down. Then he unhooks the removable showerhead (that Dean installed in each of their bathrooms almost immediately after moving in) and takes his own seat on the porcelain rim before flipping the metal switch inside the bath and running streams of just-past-lukewarm water over Sam’s skin.

It takes almost forty-five minutes for Dean to get Sam clean. He goes through his hair with shampoo and conditioner three times each before finally managing to get all of the dried blood and ooze out. Scrubbing the blood off of his body is even more difficult, especially when he needs to wash the area over his heart. While Dean is aware of both the blonde hair and the blue eye, he does not see the pitchfork that has been burned into Sam’s skin until a thick coat of blood has been wiped away. And the moment Dean touches the ridged skin is the moment a piercing scream tears its way through his skull. 

_ Sam. _

Perched on the edge of the tub, hands covered in bubbles and clutching the sides of his head, Dean knows without a second thought that it was  _ Sam  _ who made that noise. The boy is sitting there, mouth closed as the remnants of the cry linger in Dean’s brain, but  _ it was him. _

It’s with shaking hands that Dean finishes rinsing Sam’s body and, turning off the water and standing up, he gestures for Sam to take his place on the rim of the tub.  _ Are you okay?  _ He wants to ask, but that would be stupid, even more stupid than when he asked earlier, because how could anyone with a scream like that perched at the tip of their tongue genuinely be okay?

Taking a towel from behind the bathroom door, Dean drapes it over Sam’s shoulders before turning to the vanity to look for a hair-tie. Plucking one from an open drawer and scooping a comb up from the floor, he begins to try something he’s only done maybe a half dozen times in his entire life: braid Sam’s hair. 

Blonde strands that slip forward are pushed back as he gathers a section of hair from either side of Sam’s head and brings them together behind. Then, a bit clumsily but also with a surprising amount of skill, he braids them together and ties the final product off at the bottom. With any luck, Dean thinks, this will keep the blonde from falling in front of Sam’s face. Out of sight, out of mind.

Placing the comb on the edge of the sink, Dean takes Sam by toweled shoulders and helps him out of the tub. “I got you,” he says quietly, though it might be more for himself than his brother. On the other hook behind the door hangs the boy’s bathrobe, and Dean swaps it out for the towel, tossing the latter onto the pile of dirty clothes. Helping him slip arms into sleeves, Dean ties the robe closed around Sam’s waist. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Pressed against his brother’s side, Sam follows Dean into the bedroom and, with zero hesitation, climbs onto the mattress. Dean watches as his brother burrows under the few dark blankets he has on his bed, face already buried in his pillow. “I’ll be inside,” he says after a moment. “Shout if you need me.”

There is a faint nod from Sam, but nothing more.

Dean thinks briefly about staying, but it’s just then that he finally feels the first wave of exhaustion wash over his body. He needs to shower too, and then get at least eight hours of sleep; they’ve barely had a moment’s peace since they first received Lucifer’s call, and he could honestly use a good night’s rest. Sam’s bed looks warm and inviting, but the boy needs his space. So, with one last look over his shoulder, he steps out into the hallway and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I assume you all heard the news about next season?  
> \----------  
> I'm getting so impatient to write a more violent/morally ambiguous Sam that I'm on a goddamn writing speed-run.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re deflecting. Only I’m allowed to do that.” - House

Something’s wrong.

Sweat mats the armpits of his shirt and streaks down the sides of his face. He can feel his skin crawling with trepidation - a foreign and very unwelcome feeling - as he takes a few steps forwards. His head pounds with a fierce headache and there’s the strange sensation that he is not alone in this abandoned building.

And he isn’t. There’s a demon standing just a couple of feet away, but that’s not why those alarm bells are going off. There’s something else, there’s  _ someone  _ else, but he can’t figure out who, let alone why this is happening.

Forcing the thoughts to the back of his mind, he clasps his hands in front of him and says to the creature, “Listen up, idiot, I’ve got some questions for you.”

The demon, opting out of a reply, starts towards him instead, eyes darkening as it readies itself to attack.

But a flick of his hand and it is flung back on to its ass, the creature releasing a surprised yelp as it hits the ground. 

“Uh, hello?” He scoffs, looking at it almost incredulously.

The demon, sitting halfway up, freezes in place. “Lucifer?”

With an overdramatic roll of his eyes, the archangel answers, “Uh, yeah? Who else would I be?”

_ me _

The voice slams into Lucifer like a punch to the gut, stealing all of his air. He doubles over, arms clutching his stomach as he gasps for breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the demon begin to move, and he holds up a hand. “Don’t--- don’t even think about it.” 

The demon sits back down.

Slowly straightening up, Lucifer turns aside, speaking quietly as he calls, “Sam?”

_ hey _

“What are you doing in my head?”

_ guess _

He purses his lips. “Well, hallucinating is more  _ your  _ thing.”

_ shut up _

Sam’s tone digs deep into his temples, encouraging the steadily growing migraine. It is void of fear and full of a calmness that commands respect.

“Get out. Now.”

_ i don’t think it works like that _

“Then tell me how it  _ does  _ work or I’ll rip you out myself.” 

_ i don’t think it works like that either _

Lucifer can feel a familiar rage stirring in his fingertips, but he doesn’t know quite where to put it. 

He gets his answer when the demon climbs to its feet and makes a break for the exit. Before it can even take two steps, however, it suddenly collapses onto its knees, Lucifer’s closed fist signifying that he is slowly strangling it to death.

_ stop _

Eyebrows go up.  _ “Stop?” _

_ exorcise him _

“Yeah… I don’t think so.”

_ kill him now and its over _

The archangel lifts his chin, trying to figure out where Sam is going with this. “...what’s your point?”

_ exorcise him and he’ll be sent back to hell _

Lucifer looks at the creature, relaxing his hand a little.

_ there’s nothing demons hate more than being in hell _

“You just want to save the human.”

_ what’s your point _

Hesitation stalls him but, at a gentle nudging at the back of his mind, he relaxes his telepathic grip. Instead he gestures towards himself, taking the demon by the collar as he allows the lines of the exorcism to flow through Sam’s invisible lips and out his own. 

With a searing cry, the demon bursts free of its vessel, black smoke forced out of the human and sent roaring back to hell.

The man that Lucifer holds in his hand is now unconscious, but his archangelic powers convey that he has no physical damage. As for any psychological damage he might have upon awakening, however…

Without really thinking about it, Lucifer touches two fingers to the human’s temple, a small burst of golden light flickering across the skin the moment they make contact. Then, allowing the man to fall back onto the floor, the archangel teleports himself out of the abandoned building and into an alleyway next door.

And he pauses, suddenly realizing what just happened. “Did I just… erase his memory?”

_ that’s what it looked like _

“Alright, look, enough is enough.” He’s angry, and the intense confusion that he feels is only making him even more furious. “Get the fuck out.” When he doesn’t receive an immediate response, he turns and slams his fist into the wall, hand driving almost a half foot into the concrete. “Get  _ out!” _

Breathing heavily, he draws back, fully prepared to blow a hole into the side of the building, when he suddenly realizes how exhausted he is. The pain in his head is overwhelming, like someone has driven two angel blades through either side of his skull. With an agony pressing against the back of his eyes and a ringing in his ears, Lucifer sits down in the dirt, the hands he has pressed against his temples doing nothing to impede it all as he pleads softly for an answer: “What the hell did you do to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're hoping that I'm going to turn Lucifer into a sympathetic, misunderstood, redeemable character, BOY have you come to the Wrong Place.  
> \-------  
> Fucking hell, episode 14x17 had me on the edge of my seat. I love Cas, and I feel bad for saying this, but every time he and Anael appeared onscreen I wanted to yell "I DON'T CARE" because the Nick/Sam/Dean/Jack storyline had me terrified and every time they cut to a different scene I felt another wave of anxiety.  
> \-------  
> Y'all see the promo for 14x18 though? And you see who was sitting next to Jack? Alive or a hallucination? Let's discuss.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So much, so soon, to rest on his young shoulders.” - The Black Cauldron

Sam shifts in his chair, scuffing his shoe against the floor as he turns yet another page of yet another book. 

He’s been up for almost five hours now, having only been asleep for three before waking up feeling unusually refreshed and energized. It still being only in the wee hours of the morning, he decided against seeking out Dean and Cas. He’d have to deal with them later anyway, and he figured he might as well wait until the former had gotten some rest. 

So instead he turned to whatever he could do within own his room to pass the time. First, he made his bed, tucking the sheets and blankets tightly beneath the mattress. His next move was to clean the bathroom but, upon opening the door, he saw that Dean had already done it. The floor had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, with no sign that Sam had mutilated himself within just a few hours earlier. 

Spotting the empty hooks on the back of the door, Sam shrugged off his bathrobe and hung it up. Then he padded back into his room and began methodically searching his drawers for something to wear. Eventually he settled on a black v-neck, a deep purple and black flannel, and a dark pair of jeans. Sitting down on his bed, he tugged on a matching pair of soft, purple socks, and then over them his shoes.

He stayed there for a minute or two, seated comfortably on the mattress, but also itching to do something. So he pulled a couple of books from his shelves, books he’s read dozens of times before, and read through them again. The next time he looked at the clock, it showed that not even two hours had passed. Impatience prompting a low growl in the back of his throat, Sam picked up his phone, a pair of headphones, and five more books before heading out into the hall and towards Dean’s room.

That’s where he’s been since then, music blasting in his ears, teeth nibbling at the skin of his lower lip as his eyes flick from Dean to the pages, then back to Dean. 

It’s twenty-three more minutes before the older hunter finally stirs, though him waking up probably has less to do with it happening naturally than the loud  **_bang_ ** of the heavy book that Sam purposely dropped onto the floor.

Mussed hair making him look not unlike a porcupine, Dean glances over at his brother. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Not long.” Sam watches as he pulls himself to the edge of the bed and yawns. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Tossing blankets aside, Dean gets up, scoffing, “Not with you watching, I can’t.” Waving Sam to his feet, he takes his grey bathrobe from the chair and puts it on. “Cas and then coffee,” he says, tightening the soft belt around his waist.

They make their way to Cas’ room, where Dean knocks a little too loudly on the door. When no one answers, he turns the knob and opens it just enough so that the both of them can lean inside. 

The room is empty. 

“Guess I’m the only one not up,” Dean says, closing the door. 

Sam thinks he can hear a twinge of irritation in his voice, but he files that away as something to deal with later, and trails his brother back down the hall and into the kitchen.

And there’s Cas, sitting at the table, pushing a half-finished beer back and forth between his hands. He looks up the moment they step inside, and Sam doesn’t miss the way he tenses on seeing him follow Dean into the room.

The older hunter gestures towards the bottle, concerned. “Bit early to be drinkin’, don’t you think?”

Without missing a beat, the angel replies, _ “You _ do it.”

Insulted, Dean scoffs and looks to his brother as if to say  _ Can you believe this guy?  _ But he receives no sympathy from Sam, who isn’t even trying to hide his smile.

At Dean’s glare, Sam just shrugs and scoots aside, taking a seat across from Cas. 

It feels like years since he was last in this room, since he and Dean sat facing each other, knees touching as the older man cleaned his wounds, his  _ self-inflicted  _ wounds. It feels like years since he told Dean everything, and yet it’s still so fresh, like a scabbed-over cut that Sam has reopened one too many times. And now that he has this voice in his head,  _ his  _ voice, it’s like he’s constantly on fire, and he doesn’t know how to alleviate what isn’t pain so much as

**_Pleasure?_ **

The boy curls his left hand into a fist. He needs to get out of here. He needs to move. He needs to

“Sam.”

He blinks, coming back into focus as a cold glass is nudged against his tightened knuckles. He looks down at the smoothie, then up at Cas. “You made this?”

“A few hours ago, yes.” The angel moves his beer aside, it having been more for dramatic appearances than anything else. “I had assumed that you would awaken earlier, but---”

“No, I did,” Sam cuts him off, leaning in and taking a whiff of the smoothie. Apples, carrots, kale, and milk.

_ could be worse _

**_No, it couldn’t._ **

He lifts the glass to his lips. “I only got about three hours of sleep, but I feel great.” Taking a sip of the drink, he fights the urge to immediately spit it back up. Kudos to Cas for trying, but it is absolutely disgusting. Worst of all, the milk tastes like it might’ve gone sour.

**_Told you._ **

Putting the smoothie back on the table, Sam forces a smile. “It’s good. Thanks.”

Cas doesn’t look convinced, but he also no longer seems too focused on his failed project. “That isn’t out of the ordinary,” he says, referencing the few hours the hunter spent asleep. “You’re bound to find yourself rejuvenated in shorter amounts of time.”

Dean turns slowly to Cas, entire body clearly radiating the question  _ Are you genuinely fucking kidding me? _

But the angel doesn’t notice and, after about ten seconds of dead quiet, when he finally sees the way that his friend his glaring at him, he just furrows his brow.

**_Ask them._ **

“Why isn’t it out of the ordinary?” Sam says, breaking the silence. 

They look to him simultaneously, but neither of them speaks.

**_Again._ **

Sam reaches across the table, catching Dean by the wrist before he can draw away.  _ “Answer me.”  _ His tone oozes the same anger that they witnessed earlier, when he had Cas backed against the wall. What’s worse

**_Or better_ **

is that he can  _ feel  _ Lucifer leaning over his shoulder, guiding him, ordering him to tighten his grip until just before he breaks his brother’s wrist. And it feels  _ good. _

Cas goes to separate them, but Dean shakes his head, staring directly into those red-ringed eyes as he says, “Tell him.”

It takes the angel a moment, mind seeking a way to explain to the younger man what is happening without making things worse. But then there’s the low groan that slips free of Dean’s lips, and he immediately says, “You’re possessed.”

There’s no way to predict how someone will react upon being given such devastating news, especially when they’ve already gone through the horrors of possession numerous times. But of all of the scenarios that are racing through Cas’ mind, he doesn’t expect this.

He doesn’t expect the stunted way in which Sam releases his brother, the boy’s hollow “oh” cutting him to the core. He doesn’t expect Sam to slide his hands into his lap, head bowed and voice quiet as he asks, “Is that it?”

**_What, am I not enough for you?_ **

_ not now _

Sam isn’t surprised; it makes perfect sense. But why isn’t it as difficult to control Lucifer this time around? And when he practically strangled Cas, when he nearly snapped Dean’s wrist - why did he enjoy it?

**_Why not?_ **

Pushing the voice as far back as he can, Sam looks from his friend to his brother. “Dean?”

Dean taps his thumbs together, ignoring the slight ache in his arm. “It’s your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Yeah, uh, according to Cas, you’ve got half of each.” At Sam’s confused expression, he elaborates, “You’ve got half a soul, and you’re being possessed by half of Lucifer.”

Incredulous laughter bursts free of Sam’s mouth.  _ “Excuse me?” _

Feeling Dean’s nudge, Cas takes over. “I believe that, when you were in The Empty, you and Lucifer merged into one being. And when we brought you back---”

“We each kept some of the other with us.” The muscles in Sam’s neck tighten. “Does that, uh--- does that mean that Lucifer has the rest of my soul?”

“Yes,” Cas replies. “But we  _ will  _ get it back.”

“Will you?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Dean echoes firmly. “And we’ll get  _ him _ outta  _ you, _ too. That clear?”

Lips pursed, Sam crosses his arms. “You got it, Dean-o.”

The older hunter can feels the hairs on the back of his neck go up, and goosebumps prickle across his skin. He’s just about to make some sort of comment when Cas kicks him in the ankle. Biting back both a curse of annoyance and a cry of surprise, Dean stays quiet, understanding just in time why Cas wants him to shut up.

Sam might know now about his possession and lack of soul, but he’s probably only vaguely aware of how much power he actually has. If he was angry enough, it’s possible that he could kill both Dean and Cas with a simple snap of his fingers. He’d feel like he’d been put through the wringer, but he could probably do it. And neither Cas nor Dean want to deal with explaining that, not yet, not until it’s absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately, that moment might come sooner than they hope, because Dean has barely stood up to pour himself a much-needed cup of coffee when Crowley suddenly appears at the head of the table.

“Boys.” The demon flashes a smile. “I found your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.  
> \------  
> I was going to say Some Things about Jack's character arc as of the most recent episode (14x18), but it's only been a day since it premiered, so I won't. All I'll say is I'm disappointed but not surprised.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Words are living things. They have personality, point of view, agenda.”  
> “They’re pack hunters.” - Hannibal

Blood spots the carpet at Lucifer’s feet, the nylon thick between his toes.

The desperation to climb out of his own skin had him stripping himself of his clothes the moment he entered the house, but there was no stopping the itch that pressed itself into the back of his skull, the gentle grating of Sam’s voice. And it was not as though the hunter was being antagonistic; he was mainly keeping a running commentary of Lucifer’s actions as he shoplifted a root beer and an almond joy _(god really didn’t bless you with looks_ or _taste buds huh)_ , stole a minivan _(are you asking siri how to hotwire a car),_ and climbed through the kitchen window of this house _(watching too many james bond movies is bad for your health)._

With Sam riding shotgun, Lucifer clearly hasn’t been as sharp, but he still had enough control of himself to ensure that he broke in when no one was home. And so, once he dumped his clothes unceremoniously onto the kitchen tile, he headed upstairs to find a bathroom.

To his great relief, Sam fell into a dead silence the moment he began to undress, and he didn’t say another word until Lucifer stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

_did you_

“Shut up,” the archangel snapped, and immediately the boy retreated. Whoever this Sam is, he seems to have retained memories of the trauma he experienced at Lucifer’s hands in The Cage. That, at least, should make him easier to control.

It was just as Lucifer was exchanging his towel for a too silky, definitely too-cold-against-the-bits bathrobe when he heard the front door open.

It took all of two minutes and not a single breadth of his powers to subdue the homeowner, bind him to a dining room chair, and drag him into the far more spacious living area.

And that’s who he’s now crouched in front of, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet as a record player crackles Marilyn Manson’s _Sweet Dreams_ from the next room.

Lucifer’s captive is old - _very_ old, in fact. Pockmarks and wrinkles warp the skin of a man who is pushing ninety. The collar of his dress shirt is stained with his blood, the red having streaked down from his nose and teeth after Lucifer landed a few choice punches against his decidedly breakable face.

_stop it_

**_Or what?_ **

“I already told you,” the man chokes out, lips quivering with fear, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Head cocked almost mockingly, Lucifer purses his lips as he places a hand on his captive’s forearm. “Oh, but I think you do, Zephon.”

Spots form on softened flesh as the man pulls against his restraints. “My name is _Charles.”_

“Really?” Lucifer looks at him, not angry so much as inconvenienced. “You’re really going to make me do this?”

“Do what?”

The archangel rises slowly, lips scant inches away from his captive’s ear as he replies, voice low, “This.”

Then, grip tight on that poor, prone wrist, he pulls as hard as he can, tearing the flesh in half.

_LUCIFER_

The name is like a knife through the archangel’s eardrums, but he goes by instinct and releases an enormous roar, his demand of “ _quiet!”_ practically enveloped by the sound.

In that same moment, the older man goes to scream, but Lucifer’s hand is pressed firmly against his mouth before a single sound can breach his lips. He’s crying now - big, fat, ugly tears - and snot is slick against Lucifer’s fingers. But the archangel doesn’t care. He needs to focus. Push back Sam, push back the noise, and _focus._

Lucifer adjusts his hold, taking the man’s jaw in his grasp. “I am going to take this vessel apart piece by piece---”

“V-vessel?”

“---and send you screaming back into the open air.”

Terror seems to leak from his captive like the open wound that is now staining the carpet black, yet Lucifer will not stop.

“People are a lot more careful nowadays with what they put into their bodies.”

_if you’re looking for an apology_

Lucifer’s voice is strained as he continues, “Trust me, I’m still dealing with that myself.”

_you’re an even bigger idiot than i thought_

He releases his grip to drop both hands onto his captive’s thighs. “How long do you think it’ll take you to find someone else to say ‘yes’?” Nails dig into old-man khakis as he leans in, ensuring that their eyes are locked before flooding them with their patented red.

It’s another thirty seconds of silence before the man finally sits back, retracting his perfect look of agony and replacing it with one of great satisfaction. “So it _is_ you.” His eyes flash so briefly that Lucifer would think he is seeing things if he isn't so certain that the being sitting across from him is one of the heavenly host. “We thought maybe the demons were lying.”

_oops_

The pleasure that dances in Lucifer’s stomach isn’t his, and it’s as he’s trying and failing to shove it down, down, down that he realizes what Sam did. As it turns out, back at the warehouse, saving the possessed human wasn’t Sam’s only motivation behind goading Lucifer into performing an exorcism. Leaving the demon alive would allow word to spread about the archangel’s resurrection, which would, in turn, cause hell to rain down on him.

**_You manipulative, little bitch._ **

_i learned from the best_

“You mind?”

Lucifer blinks down at Zephon to see him nodding towards his mutilated wrist and, with an annoyed grunt, he cauterizes the grisly wound. That newly familiar pain presses against the back of his eyes and he rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Bad news travels fast, eh?”

Zephon shrugs. “Angel or demon, the state cleared out pretty quick the moment we heard you were back. Thank God for whatever stayed your hand in that warehouse.”

Lucifer feels Sam smile and immediately his temper flares. “Ooh, I wouldn’t get too handsy with Daddy-o just yet,” he warns, tugging the sleeves of his stolen robe up around his elbows. There’s that feeling again, that need to run, to fight, to just **_go, go, go!_ **

But he can’t, especially not now. He needs to learn to control this, to control _himself,_ to control _Sam._

Allowing himself a long, deep breath, he walks into the dining room and picks up one of the chairs. Manson finished singing long ago, the record player releasing the occasional groan but now otherwise silent. Swinging the chair alongside, Lucifer thumps it down in front of Zephon and takes a seat. “Why didn’t you leave too?” He asks.

The angel looks at him expectantly, and Lucifer scoffs.

“Working both sides, are you? Careful, Zephon. Heaven isn’t opposed to clipping wings.”

“And _I’m_ not opposed to cashing in on a favor from God’s favourite son.”

Lucifer notices Sam’s small flutter of panic, but he ignores it, allowing the combination of fear and apprehension to fester.

_he’s kissing ass and you know it_

**_So?_ **

Zephon boldly hooks his foot underneath Lucifer’s chair and slides him closer. “Besides, I heard you were looking for information.” The light flashes in his eyes once more, but this time it remains. “And I think I know something that could help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow listen I don't even know if this update makes sense? All I know is I'm (a) Very Depressed after having seen Avengers: Endgame twice in three days and (b) rushing towards writing a much more ruthless, soulless Sam.  
> \-----  
> I've felt so drained since I saw Endgame on Thursday and can I just say? Don't spoil anything in the comments but if you want to talk please message me on anxietony-stark.tumblr.com (off anon or over messenger because I'm not posting spoilers for two weeks) or @anxietony_stark on twitter.  
> I cried four times during the movie and then uh two more times afterwards? Then once more the next time I saw it?  
> I also may or may not have sobbed into my macaroni when my father asked how it went.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am not in danger. I am the danger." - Breaking Bad

“It’s just a building.”

Crowley looks at Dean, arching one eyebrow. “You were expecting a medieval castle with the accompanying thunder and lightning?”

“No, I just—” Dean cuts himself off, skin flushed with embarrassment. “I thought it’d look a little more—”

“Thematic? Symbolic? Contrasting your occasional light with their undeniable dark?” The demon grins wryly. “Evil doesn’t work that way, dear. Not unless you’re me.”

Before the older hunter can reply, Cas places a gentle hand on his arm. He can feel the latent rage that whirls just below the surface of his friend’s skin, waiting for permission to be unleashed. “Not here,” he murmurs. “Not now.”

Jerking away from the angel, Dean turns to look towards Sam; he is squatting about ten yards away, perched at the edge of the cliff that overlooks the warehouse.

The moment Crowley appeared in the bunker, the boy leapt to his feet, but Dean didn’t wait to see if he intended on approaching the demon with anger, thanks, or a warped combination of both. Instead he moved in between them, arm outstretched, his order of _“No”_ so powerful and demanding that it stopped Sam in his tracks. Not wasting a moment, Dean gestured Cas towards his brother before taking Crowley by the back of his thick overcoat and pulling him from the room.

“Manhandling! Manhandling!” The demon yelped, batting at Dean as he was forced down the hall.

“Oh, for—” Dean released him, but not before giving him a sharp whack on the back of the head.

With a scowl, Crowley dramatically readjusted his coat. “I come here with glad tidings - on the tail end of your _own_ little victory - and this is how I am received?” Fixing the cuff of his dress shirt, he watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. “Or are the rumors true? Have we let the archangel out of the bag _again?”_ Ten more seconds’ silence and the demon got his answer. “Marvelous. But tell me something.”

Arms crossed, Dean leaned back against the wall as he thinly replied, “Shoot.”

“The bastard is back, yes, but rumor is he’s…” Crowley licked his lips. “Different.”

“Different how?”

“If we were discussing anyone else, I’d use the word ‘compassionate’.”

Dean barked a laugh, the bitter sound grating as he sputtered an incredulous _“Compassionate.”_

Without a moment’s hesitation, Crowley pounced on the statement, on the lack of question or confusion in Dean’s voice. “You _know,”_ he murmured. “You _know_ why he’s different. But how—”

“Sam.” The hunter sniffed, purposely not looking for Crowley’s reaction.

But Crowley didn’t care about Dean’s discomfort, smiling big and wide as he breathed, “Ah, yes. If the _devil_ has suddenly found himself a conscience, then _Baby Brother_ must be…” Eyebrows raised dramatically, he trailed off, trying to catch Dean’s gaze as he tapped him on the elbow. “Bungled the resurrection bit, did you?”

Hugging himself a bit tighter, Dean gave him a look.

“As much as I hate to suggest it, you should have contacted Mother. She might have actually been able to solve this.”

“Cas wouldn’t let me,” Dean replied, attempting to push aside a conversation that would force him to admit that just one day prior he’d pressed a gun to his own head just in order to be with Sam, that he _never_ would’ve built that funeral pyre, that he would’ve run one of his best friends over with his goddamn car if it meant allowing more time to find a way to bring Sam back. But there were two men sitting just twenty yards down the hall who, if they were listening, would probably not be too happy to hear any of it.

But Crowley didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that the hunter was lying through his teeth. “Since when has Castiel _ever_ been able to tell Dean Winchester what to do about Baby Brother?”

“Alright, listen, you call him ‘Baby Brother’ one more time—”

“You’ll do what? Kill me?” Crowley looked at him expectantly, arms outstretched. “We’re well past that stage in our relationship, don’t you think?”

Dean glanced away, eyes cast towards the kitchen, hoping that Cas was somehow keeping _his_ side of things under control.

“Tell me what you did to Sam.”

Scoffing, Dean whirled back on Crowley. “Hey, _we_ didn’t—”

“Semantics,” the demon interrupted, waving the protest aside. “Answer the question.”

“They just got a little mixed up, alright?” Sighing, Dean stumbled over a way to provide answers without giving Crowley reason to sink his hooks into this new version of Sam. “Where they were, they were krazy-glued together. And now that they’re out…”

Crowley watched Dean for a long ten seconds and, upon realizing that _that_ was the end of the explanation, he rolled his eyes and asked, “Does he have a soul?”

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Kind of.”

“Is he possessed?”

“...kind of.”

There was another egregiously long silence until finally Crowley asked, jaw clenched, “Do you intend on elaborating, or shall I attempt to fill in the blanks myself?”

And so Dean finally explained - sparingly, of course - giving the demon only as many details as he’d given Sam. Crowley might be an ally, but he is a tenuous one at best, and Dean would not put it past him to use the younger hunter for his own gain if he knew about his probable archangelic powers.

“It’s warded.”

Dean blinks away from where his brother is crouched and looks over at Cas. “Say again?”

“The building,” the angel says, reiterating: “It’s warded. Against both angels _and_ demons, it seems.”

“Makes sense.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Guess I’m going in solo.” Before he can even take two steps, hower, Crowley raises a finger and says something that stops them all in their tracks: “Moose could do it.”

Immediately, Dean’s eyes go to Sam, but it’s too late; his brother is already moving towards them, the question clear on his face.

“Do _what?”_ Sam looks from Crowley to Cas, his gaze finally settling almost accusingly on Dean.

_I should have told him._

“What are you not telling me?”

Realization suddenly sweeps across Cas’ face, the angel caught with a sudden burst of annoyance as he comes to the conclusion that _someone_ \- his own glare also locks on Dean - spilled the beans to Crowley. “You _told_ him?”

“Not about _this!”_ The hunter sputters.

“He didn’t _have_ to,” Crowley spits, a bit pressed at having been left out of the loop. “But perhaps he _should_ have, and perhaps he _should_ have included _Moose_ in this too. Wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, him finding out about this by accident.”

All three men turn towards him, but Dean is the only one who speaks: “What do you mean?” He realizes how stupid the question is the moment it leaves his lips.

The demon obviously agrees, the snark in his voice undeniable as he replies, “Accidentally discovering that you have the probable strength and abilities of an archangel? Might end up blowing a rather sizable hole in the world’s population before you truly realize what you’re doing, don’t you think?”

Sam crosses his arms. “Nah, those big, bad, destructive tendencies are more up Dean’s alley than mine.” He says the insult in such an off-handed way that it sounds less like he was attempting to be cruel and more like he was stating a fact. Which, Crowley supposes, he was.

“I _like him.”_ Crowley grins, hand raised for a high-five.

Sam just looks from him to his hand, then back to him, tone a mixture of boredom and irritation as he asks, “Does someone wanna tell me what’s going on?”

 **_You_ ** **know** **_what’s going on, Sam._ **

A searing pain rips through him at the sound of his voice, like an ice-hot poker slid between his ribs.

 **_You know_ ** **exactly** **_what’s going on._ **

If anyone notices, they don’t say anything. Lucifer has been a constant presence since they left the bunker, and either Sam has gotten better at hiding his reactions or everyone else is too uncomfortable to say anything when their friend occasionally flinches at empty space.

**_You could feel it in your bones the second you woke up._ **

Cas clears his throat, eyes cast towards the ground as he supplies, “It is possible, given your situation—”

_my situation_

“—that you have limited archangelic powers.”

 _“Meaning,”_ Crowley continues, “you could transport yourself inside and break the warding.”

**_That itching in your fingertips, that coolness in your chest whenever you lay hands on someone…_ **

Sam turns his eyes on Dean, unaware of how they are now tinted with the faintest bit of red. “You knew?” He asks quietly.

**_I feel it, Sam._ **

Moving slowly so as not to awaken Sam’s newfound temper, Cas steps in between the two brothers.

**_Let it out, babe._ **

Sam smiles a little at that.

**_Let it all out._ **

“These powers you have,” the angel says evenly, “they’re not at full strength. Using them too often could have dire ramifications.” He can see the light amusement on the younger man’s face, and he wonders who he’s truly speaking to right now: Sam or Lucifer.

“Especially teleportation?”

Cas nods. “Especially teleportation.”

“Great.”

Cas can feel Dean behind him, can feel his fingers grabbing nervously at his trenchcoat. Unlike how it would be for most people, however, this fear is _for_ his brother, not _of_ him. “Just concentrate.”

**_I’m here now._ **

Sam closes his eyes.

**_So let’s go fuck shit up._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I! Am! So! Excited! For! Dark! Sam!  
> \-------  
> So guess who's finally a college graduate?


End file.
